


maybe if by magic

by earlylight



Series: Tricks & Mortar [1]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fairies, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining, Practical Magic in the Workplace, Recreational Drug Use, Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, [drew carey voice] the timeline's made up and the anachronisms don't matter!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:46:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21791041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlylight/pseuds/earlylight
Summary: “Fine, then, I don’t know, David,” Alexis mutters exasperatedly, throwing her hands up briefly before going back to her laptop. “Why don’t you just like, ask the business fairy, or whatever.”“Oh my god, of course, I don’t know why I didn’t just do that in the first place,” David replies, sarcastically. He clasps his hands together, casting his eyes to the heavens – or, in this case, the water-stained café roof. “Mm, let’s see – dear business fairy, please come and fix my incorporation documents so this empty store I’ve leased isn’t another great Rose family failure, thanks so much.”Some people bring in consultants to help get their new business off the ground. David Rose, entirely by accident (or so he claims) gets a fairy.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Series: Tricks & Mortar [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1742251
Comments: 172
Kudos: 345
Collections: Schitt's Creek Open Fic Night 2.0





	maybe if by magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassafrasx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/gifts).



> To dear [sassafrasx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrasx/pseuds/sassafrasx), who prompted fae!Patrick, and got this nonsense instead - I am taking your directive of 'just have fun with it and I know I'll love it' to heart, because I _did_ have fun with it, and I really do hope you love it! It's not high fantasy, but there is some _high_ fantasy, if you catch my drift. Please find, also enclosed, a glut of business-speak, some really top-notch puns, Sebastien Raine (sorry), magical PowerPoints, regrettably overenthusiastic puppers, a surprise guest in the third act, and a whole lotta love.

The thing about filling out a business license is.

The thing about filling out a license to practice business, for a new venture, in a store, for which a good chunk of the twenty grand he’s squirrelled away (once pocket change, now basically a fortune) has been sunk into the lease document—which has been signed, and sitting empty, just waiting for this form to be filled out, just slowly chewing through that cash, day after day it stays empty—the _thing_ , about filling in this form, this _one fucking form_ , that should be so easy in theory, the thing is—

Alexis groans, moving her whole body with it. “Ugh, David, please just pick another booth if you’re going to be over there like, grunting and huffing like that one time you came along to Advanced Zumba.” Before he can shoot back some retort about how annoying _she_ is being, with the incessant click-tap of her nails against the keyboard, or, at least a defense of his perfectly fine performance said one time he graced Advanced Zumba with an appearance, she adds, “If you’re having trouble with the form, just ask Dad to help you fill it out.”

“Sure, and how did that work out for you?” David says, instead, waving an accusatory hand over to her side of the booth, and the Johnny Rose-plagiarized essay she’s currently working to fix. “Not to mention the fact that, apparently, in direct contrast to our _entire childhood_ , our parents actually turned out to be _extremely_ overbearing and basically fabricated my entire career in art curation. So, no, hard pass on that suggestion.”

“Okay, yes, but in both of those cases that wasn’t _help_ , it was basically sabotage.”

“Mm, and would that be the dictionary definition?”

“Neither of us _asked_ for it, though,” Alexis says, tapping her finger on the table for emphasis. “It’s okay to ask for help when you actually want it. Didn’t we literally cover this in like, child group therapy?” She simpers. “Oh my god, do you remember Dr. Sutton-Meyer had like, sooo many cats at her house. I was like, so tempted to take one home, you know? Just to see if she’d notice.”

“Okay, one, _you_ were a child, I was like sixteen at the time,” David corrects, “Two, _that_ being what you got out of group therapy really explains a _lot_ , and, three, I really don’t think either Dr. Sutton-Meyer or her cabal of cats is going to be of much use here.”

“Okay but like, couldn’t you talk to Ray?” Alexis continues, pressing the issue. “Like, isn’t this one of his ten jobs, or whatever?”

“Exactly,” David replies, “He literally had me take a number, just to collect this form. As I recall, he was simultaneously conducting a very disturbing sports-themed couples’ photography session at the time.”

Alexis’ eyes go wide. “ _Ew,_ David!”

“They were _clothed,_ ” David hisses. “Anyway, that man does not have the time for half the services he _already_ claims to provide, let alone some kind of intro to business consultation.”

“Fine, then, I don’t know, David,” she mutters exasperatedly, throwing her hands up briefly before going back to her laptop. “Why don’t you just like, ask the business fairy, or whatever.”

“Oh my god, of _course,_ I don’t know why I didn’t just do that in the first place,” David replies, sarcastically. He clasps his hands together, casting his eyes to the heavens – or, in this case, the water-stained café roof. “Mm, let’s see – dear business fairy, please come and fix my incorporation documents so this empty store I’ve leased isn’t another great Rose family failure, thanks so much.”

“Ooh, are you guys having a séance?” Twyla says cheerily, coming to collect their empty plates. “You know, I’m on break in five, if you need any pointers!”

“David’s just asking the fairies to assist in his new business venture,” Alexis informs her. She drops her voice to a stage-whisper. “Poor thing is having trouble filling out his license.”

“This is—it’s a practice run,” David objects, viciously striking out another line. “ _Roma_ wasn’t filmed in a day, or whatever. At least _my_ documentation isn’t plagiarized.”

“ _Ugh!_ You are like, textbook defaming me right now. _Dad_ plagiarized my paper, okay,” Alexis directs at Twyla. “My original essay was one hundred percent legit. I probably would’ve gotten an A if he hadn’t messed it all up.”

“Well, the best of luck to you both,” Twyla says. “Alexis, you are a total boss girl, and you will crush it!”

“Um, it’s girl-boss, babe,” Alexis replies, flashing her a smile and a boop to the wrist, “But _love_ this energy for me, thank you.”

“And David, I know the screening process can be pretty hard, for some people, but I’m sure you’ll get assigned.”

“It’s one form, it’s really, it’s not that big of a deal,” David reiterates. This whole section is pretty much a no-go. As he crosses it all out, the slow slug of depressive nostalgia creeps down into the pit of his stomach. _This is almost modern art,_ he thinks, casting a critical eye over the juxtaposition of the dark slashes against the cream of the paper. _I could’ve hung this in one of my galleries. Give it a title like… Crossroads. Cross… Rose. Oh, goddamnit._

“Well, if you get approved, I hope you get Patrick!” Twyla is saying, but she’s halfway back to the kitchen by the time he looks back up. Weird that Twyla would know a specific… incorporation reviewer? Or whatever they’re called. But then again, Twyla is pretty weird. And she _is_ related to like a good third of the greater Elmdale area, so, probably just par for the course. His phone buzzes. **_come help with sheet change_** _,_ Stevie demands.

 ** _Very busy_** , David replies. He’s not so far down this hole of despair that he’s _that_ desperate for a distraction. **_Best of luck._**

 ** _ur dad is literally my one other member of staff and he’s AWOL_** , she replies.

**_If dirty sheets are the vision he sees for the future of this motel, could be a sign you need to reconsider your choice in business partner._ **

The dots on his screen dance for a minute, and then— ** _can promise weed afterwards._**

“Okay, well, I’m going to go get some fresh air,” David says, gathering up his folder. “Good luck with the essay. Hope you can use the full range of your duplexity!”

*

“—and Ray was basically like, _expecting_ me to fail,” David says, carefully picking up an oversheet with his fingertips to hand over to Stevie. Even with begloved hands, and Stevie’s assurances that they’re ‘clean’ – which, again, he’s seen her car, he _knows_ they have very different definitions of the term – he has to take precautions. Can’t afford any setbacks, not when he has an entire business to evidently build from the ground up, and he can’t even fill out his goddamn license application.

“Like, he said that?” Stevie asks. She throws the sheet over Room Three’s mattress, deftly anchoring it at the corners. “I mean, that really doesn’t sound like him. He’s chronically positive. It’s almost a condition, like, he needs _reverse_ therapy.”

“Okay, yes, I’m paraphrasing, but he said something like, ‘see you again soon!’ Like he _knew_ I was going to fuck up this business license form and have to come crawling on back for another one.”

“Right,” Stevie says, slowly. She turns back to face him. “Or, maybe, and hear me out here, he was expecting you back to, you know, hand in your form.”

“Hm,” David considers, after a moment. “I mean, I guess you can interpret the _words_ that way. But the _tone_ could have very much said something far different. I don’t know. Maybe you had to be there.”

“Okay,” Stevie cuts in, “So you know that I think your business is a good idea, and you know that I mean that because I’m incapable of faking sincerity.” She pauses, considering. “I’m also just incapable of sincerity in general.”

“Yes, but you’re _also_ not the one who gets to decide whether I can actually get this thing off the ground,” David replies, pushing the jitters out through his hands, “And right now I am sitting on a big, empty space, and I can’t even detail, on _one piece of paper_ , what I plan to do with it.”

“You’re freaking out,” Stevie replies, “Because you _know_ what you want to do with your business, you have walked me through it _one_ too many times, so you just need to dig yourself out of whatever elaborate cave system you’ve built in your head and just write it down.”

If only it were that fucking easy. “Great, well, speaking of getting out of my head,” David says, instead, holding out his hand, “I believe I was promised suitable compensation for my time here.”

Stevie sighs, and pulls a joint out of her pocket. “Full disclosure: I found it under the bed in Room Two.”

David makes a face. “That’s disgusting. You did _not_ mention that in the text.” He wavers for only a moment. “But, yes, those are terms I can accept.”

*

The empty store is even more empty than he previously thought. The bare white walls seem to stretch out forever, even though like, aesthetically, black walls would actually provide a better illusion of depth. The only furnishing left, aside from the front desk for the cashier, is a single chair. He moves the chair. No, that’s not the correct position. He swipes back in the air to undo the move, but the chair stays in the same place. No, wait, it’s—he hits Command+Z. Nope. _What’s the sequence for PC._ _There’s definitely a Z still in there. Shift…control…_ It takes him a few more moments for his brain to register that this is still a physical space. The chair needs to be moved, physically. Which makes more sense.

With the chair back in the middle of the room, he takes a seat, fanning his papers out on the floor in front of him just because it feels right. “Okay,” he says, the word resounding very loudly in the cavernous room he’s evidently leased. Holy shit, he has to fill this _whole room_ with products. It’s kind of making him feel dizzy. He lets out a long breath. “Just write it down. Okay.”

“The old general store, huh?” comes a voice from across the room. “Well, you’ve certainly picked prime property for whatever your new business is going to be.” David frowns down at his papers for a few more moments, before realizing it’s not actually _his_ voice, still echoing around from… whatever he said before. He tilts his head over, blearily – there’s a plain-looking man sat atop the cashier desk, in a sensible blue dress shirt and straight-cut jeans, smiling genially over at him.

David’s frown deepens. “Did I… let you in?” he asks, trying to recall if – and more importantly, _why_ – he let some stranger into his store. Not that there’s anything to steal. Except his one, precious chair. Instinctively, he grips at the wooden frame. _You want to take this chair, you’ll have to take me with it._

“I, uh, I’m not here for your chair,” the man replies, looking a little perplexed. David snaps his mouth shut. _Why_ did he say that out loud. God, he is too fucking high for this. “I’m here about your request, that you made earlier today. For assistance with your incorporation papers?” He hops off of the desk, walking over to David and offering his hand. “Patrick,” he supplies, along with that polite smile. “And you must be David Rose. I’ve been assigned to your case.” David is still kind of reticent to get up and relinquish control of the chair, but the muscle memory of years of celebrity galas reflexively pulls his right hand up to clasp in a shake.

“Mmkay, I think you have the wrong store,” David replies. “’Cause I didn’t apply for some kind of case, for incorporation, or whatever.”

Patrick frowns. “Well, I did go to the café first, since that’s where the request came from, and Twyla said you’d be here. But, hey, mix-ups can happen from time to time.” He fishes what looks like a blue chrome Motorola RAZR out of his pocket and flips it open. “So you’re saying, definitively, that this isn’t you?”

 _“Dear business fairy,”_ the phone says, in David’s voice, “ _Please come and fix my incorporation documents so this empty store I’ve leased isn’t another great Rose family failure, thanks so much.”_

“How did you—did Alexis put you up to this?” David asks, after a long moment. “That was—it was obviously a joke. I was joking.”

Patrick looks at him, a little narrowly, and then huffs out a surprised laugh. “Oh, you are _baked_ ,” he says. “Clearly this is a recent development, or your request earlier wouldn’t have registered.” He shoots David a wink. “Lucky you, huh?”

“I don’t understand what is happening, here,” David says. “Can you please leave me alone, I’m trying to fill out my business license application in what I _thought_ was a _safe space_ , but clearly the universe and certain members of my family just want me to fail.”

“This is your application?” Patrick asks, apparently ignoring everything he’s just said and picking David’s maligned form off of the ground. “Wow. You’ve really done a number on this, haven’t you. Let’s get you a blank slate.” He tosses the paper into the air, and it— _disappears._ A few sparkles swirl in the empty space it left behind, quickly winking out. “There,” Patrick is saying, and a new form bursts into existence in his hand, the same glitter diffusing out through the air.

“Wow,” David says, feeling the laughter rising up in his chest. “Alexis—Alexis hired a—” He can’t quite—the word isn’t coming to him. “Like the, uh, the Charles Dickens guy. Or Darren Criss’ angel. That’s _you_.”

Patrick seems to turn this over in his head. “I’m going to go out on a limb here, and assume you’re referencing David Copperfield? And, let’s see… Criss Angel?” He makes a face. “Ugh, magicians? Really? No. Please don’t correlate my _actual magic_ with those hacks.”

“That,” David says, waving his hand significantly at the fresh sheet of paper Patrick is holding, “Was sleight of hand. You’re a—a _corporate magician_.” The laughter starts to bubble out, as he continues, “Like, you pull a rabbit out of a briefcase. ‘Watch me saw my secretary in half, I am the great, uh, the Great Wizard of Wall Street!’”

“Really?” Patrick says, squaring his jaw. It’s so at odds with his cute, round face that somehow it just makes David laugh harder, nearly doubling over in his chair. “Alright. How’s this for sleight of hand?” And suddenly, he’s gone, the air barely given the chance to twinkle before he reappears, now sitting opposite David in a slightly different wooden chair.

David rubs at his eyes, laughter winding down into a few short breaths. What was _in_ that joint? Room Two evidently likes their weed laced with a little Lucy in the Sky. Not that he’s minding the trip – this is actually getting kind of fun. “You obviously got that from the back room. And yes, I am very high, but also coming down a little, so I closed my eyes and had a brief nap while you went to get it.”

“Hmm,” Patrick intones, and then the chair’s empty again. A minute or so passes, and then he’s back, a plate in his hands with a perfectly golden-brown croissant sat upon it. “This is from the all-day continental breakfast service at the Ritz,” he says, and then pauses, significantly. “In _Paris._ ”

David takes the plate from him eagerly, inhaling half the croissant in one fell swoop. “Unhg,” he intones, in appreciation. God, there’s nothing like French pastry. Maybe it really could be—but then he finishes his bite, licking the butter off his lips, and reassesses. “No, actually, this is like, the same butter I had when I was with the Amish,” David recalls. “You definitely have to drive past there on your way here, so, that was _for sure_ in your pocket the whole time.” He licks his lips again. “Or, I’m hallucinating, and this is a sense memory from a traumatic time in my life. It could go either way, at this point.”

“When you were with the _—_ I can’t actually tell if you’re lying to me, or not, but, no, this croissant literally has the Ritz Paris logo stamped onto the bottom.”

“M’sorry,” David replies, the other half of the croissant already in his mouth. “Di’nt see. ‘Un sec – mm. No, alright. Here’s something. Um, there’s this Japanese island called Aogashima, which is like, a volcano within a volcano? And this old widow lives on top of the second volcano, and she sells this like, luxury hand-crafted suncream that she makes in this big stone pot inside her tiny hut, and you can’t find it anywhere else in the—”

Patrick disappears. “—world,” David finishes. A couple minutes pass, and then some more. David licks a few more crumbs off his fingers, then skates them across the plate to try and capture any last stragglers. Maybe it _is_ time for dinner. He’s very much getting nowhere with this form, and smoking up in order to ‘get out of his head’ was definitely not the way he should be approaching this. Especially now he’s not only apparently hallucinating this random guy, but this guy is in _mid-range denim_ with a _braided belt_ , a clear indication his brain is not in the right space tonight.

Imaginary croissant, though? Very nice.

“Nailed it,” Patrick says, smugly, and David lets out an aborted yelp, almost tipping off his chair. “Sorry, that took a while. Got caught up in conversation. My Japanese is a bit rusty, but it served well enough. Hana-san is _lovely._ And you’re right, this stuff is great. I actually got one for myself, too. Pity she’s not looking to sell outside the island.” He hands over a small smoky-glass jar, calligraphic kanji sweeping across the simple brown of the label. Barely daring to breathe, David takes it – careful, reverent – his hand brushing Patrick’s in the exchange. That brief touch feels, when he thinks about it… normal, warm. Real, maybe. Or this was a truly top-of-the-line rainbow joint that he smoked.

David stares down at the precious miracle elixir in his hand, something he thought lost to him forever along with the former riches of his family, and comes to a decision. “Okay,” he says, magnanimously, “I think you’ve earned the right to help my fill out my application form, if that is what you wish.”

He looks up to see Patrick grin, a clipboard now balanced on his knee, pen poised at the ready. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

David is remaking his bed in the morning, smoothing out the sheets, when his fingers nudge something round and cool to the touch. Flipping over his pillow, he finds the smoky jar of bespoke, hand-crafted Japanese luxury suncream. “Oh my god,” he breathes, turning the bottle over in his hands. He carefully places it back under the pillow. “Oh my _god,”_ he repeats, flinging open the door and moving at a quick clip towards reception.

“Okay, _when_ were you planning on telling me magic was real,” he says, as he pushes through the door, Alexis and Stevie breaking off their chat to acknowledge the gravitas his entrance deserves, “Or was I just supposed to find out when a literal _fairy_ breaks into my store?”

Alexis flicks out her wrists, jewelry jangling with the motion. “I’m _sorry,_ David, I didn’t know it was _my_ job to establish what is and isn’t real for you. You are like nearly forty, this should _not_ be news!”

“Okay I am barely into my mid-thirties, but more pressingly, _how,_ ” David asks. “ _How_ is this not news to you?”

“Um, maybe because I was out living my life instead of spending like eight hours a day reformatting my MySpace profile, David,” she retorts. “No one cared about your Top 8, okay! Anyway, how do you think I escaped the cage-fighting ring in Tibet? Or the Trans-Siberian diamond heist? Because I definitely didn’t learn fluent Russian in under twenty-four hours. I like, literally told you yesterday – if you need help, you just have to ask for it!”

“Wait, you seriously didn’t know?” Stevie asks him, eyebrows raised. She turns to back Alexis. “So did David actually stay in that mansion with your family, or was he living under a rock?”

“Ooh, _burn_ , David,” Alexis says, holding out her hand for a high five with Stevie – who returns it, awkwardly – and giving him her most annoying smirk: the close-lipped, jaw-extended, eyes-squinched-almost-closed Alexis Special.

“I will put unwashed denim in your whites cycle,” David promises vehemently.

Alexis flips from smug to murderous in an instant. “David, I swear to god—”

“Who was it?” Stevie interrupts. David frowns at her. “The fairy, in your store.”

David’s memories of that whole saga are, admittedly, patchy. “Um,” he dithers, “Well, he was this guy, uh, called—”

Saved by the bell – the reception door jingles open, and David has only a seconds-breadth of relief before he sees who it is, and a lovely highlight reel of his most mortifying moments from the day before starts playing in the back of his head. “Patrick!” Stevie exclaims, and _that_ was his name, he _knew_ it was P-name, like a Peter or Phillip or someone, _Patrick_ the apparent business fairy nudges open the door with his hip, and, for some reason, brings in with him a carrier with three coffees.

“Hey Stevie! Long time, it’s good to see you again,” Patrick says, setting down the coffees on the desk, and greeting Stevie with a brief hug. Alexis throws David a little eyebrow-raise at this exchange, which he elects not to respond to. God, did he really call this fairy person _Darren Criss’ angel?_ He can never smoke _again_. “Hope you don’t mind me dropping in. I got your orders from Twyla.” _Oh god,_ David thinks, wishing he could magic _himself_ out of here right now, _I literally called him a corporate magician and he’s brought me coffee_. “Sorry,” Patrick directs at Alexis, “I don’t have one for you, uh—”

“Alexis Rose,” she supplies, providing Patrick with a limp wrist to shake and a winning smile. “Stevie, you never told me you had friends that actually like, own a dress shirt,” punctuating this with a little tweak to Patrick’s collar. Patrick, instead of responding to that the way most guys do around Alexis, actually leans out of her orbit – still politely engaged, but arms crossed, angled back against the desk.

“Mm, yeah, how do you and Stevie, uh, know each other?” David inquires, fighting both the voice in his head that screams _don’t call attention to yourself, he’ll bring up all the embarrassing things you did yesterday and they’ll never let you live it down,_ but also, squinting at the soft blue of Patrick’s lapel, the irrational urge to tell Alexis to _back off._

Patrick flicks his gaze over to David, flashing him a smile. “I worked with Stevie’s great aunt to help this place shore up against the recession, which must have been – wow, about ten years ago, now. Time sure does fly.” He turns back to Stevie. “How is Maureen? It would be great to catch up, while I’m in town.”

“She passed, not too long ago,” Stevie replies. “I’m actually kind of in charge now.”

Patrick places a sympathetic hand on her arm. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a lovely person – fair, honest, ran a tight ship. I wish I could’ve helped make that transition easier for you, that must’ve been rough, but you seem to have weathered it well.”

“Yeah,” Stevie mutters, “Uh, about that…”

“Well, once my dad talked her off the ledge, Stevie just brushed those little pieces of iceberg off the hull and kept this ship sailing,” Alexis says brightly, pulling Patrick’s focus back to her. “So, you must be the fairy helping David out with the store, right?”

 _Oh god, this is it, he’s going to tell them,_ David thinks, internally bracing himself. But Patrick just smiles, again, shoving his—good lord, shoving his _entire hands_ into his pockets, for some unfathomable reason. “Guilty as charged.”

“Well, Patrick, I’m _so_ glad you’re here,” Alexis continues. “Because, speaking of ledges, David was basically about to jump yesterday—”

“Okay, so this has been fun,” David cuts in, reaching over the counter towards the carrier, and the cup marked DAVID, because maybe Patrick’s having fun dragging this out but he just can’t be here when he inevitably starts joking with Stevie and Alexis about how _hilarious_ it was that David didn’t know about magic, “But I’m just going to get in here and take that to go, thanks so much.”

“Good thinking, David,” Patrick says, picking out his own cup. “Work to do, no time to waste. One second, though, I’ll just fetch your—” he flicks his other wrist, hand outstretched, and… nothing happens. “…Huh,” he says, frowning over at his empty palm. He seems to concentrate, squeezing his fist at the air, and again, coming up blank. “Okay. So that’s weird.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, before,” Stevie says. “It’s not that I didn’t _want_ to reach out, it’s that the uh, the motel is kind of…” She flicks her eyes to David and Alexis, for some reason, before continuing. “I wish I didn’t have to say this in front of you guys, because you’re going to freak out, when it’s really not that big of a deal, but. Anyway, the motel is sort of… cursed.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “Ah,” Patrick says, and _“Cursed?”_ Alexis shrieks, as David goes, “The motel is—what does that even mean?” before Alexis, still talking over him, exclaims, “But we’ve been living here for like _three years!_ ”

“Not the _entire_ motel, actually,” Stevie corrects, looking a little harried. “Room Five is okay. Magic works in there. Just not the rest of the place.” Patrick nods, as though any of this makes _any_ kind of sense.

“Wait, there’s a not-cursed room?” Alexis asks. “Why aren’t we in the not-cursed room? Stevie, I want to move to the not-cursed room, I can’t have any more bad luck, Dad was up on some ladder the other day and I walked under it and now I have this stupid plagiarized essay I have to fix.”

“I mean, that was really more Dad than the ladder,” David says, “But Alexis does raise a good point, Stevie, please do move us into the not-cursed room.”

Stevie fixes him with a flat glare. “Sure, if you’re both happy with sleeping in the same room Roland and Jocelyn have regular ‘weekenders’ in, I will gladly move you into Room Five.”

Alexis presses her lips together, tight. David has a feeling they’re probably making the same expression. “On second thought, don’t we really make our own luck?”

“Mm, that’s what I thought,” Stevie replies.

Patrick, seemingly amused, turns to address her. “I’m guessing this has something to do with some of the less reputable members of your family?” Stevie nods, and Patrick sighs, scrubbing at the back of his neck. “Figures. ‘Fair’ and ‘honest’ don’t exactly apply to the rest of your clan. Unfortunately, there’s not a lot I can do here, unless…” He looks thoughtful, for a moment. “You know, if you converted Room Five into the reception area, it would probably circumvent the blacklist. At least, if you wanted assistance with the paperwork side of things.”

“I think I’m good,” Stevie says, dryly. “You’ve got your hands full with David, either way.”

“Hey,” David objects. He’s not entirely sure what she means, but he’s entirely sure it’s insulting in some way.

“Full, but not tied, you know the drill,” Patrick responds, grinning. He gives David an amiable pat on the back, making for the door. “Come on, David, we’re burning daylight. Let’s make hay while the sun shines, huh?”

“Isn’t hay just like, dry grass, how does that even work,” David mutters, but that hand in his back stays firm, so he follows Patrick out into the sunshine anyway.

*

Patrick, it turns out, is not walking him to the store. Well, before they even establish that (and before they even start walking, really) David discovers that Twyla had mixed up the coffees, on account that Patrick’s order is apparently sugar syrup with a hint of caffeine. Not that David’s necessarily _opposed_ to this flavor profile, just the havoc it would wreak on his body – but Patrick courteously switches their drinks and then seems to steel himself before gulping down his incredibly sweet concoction as though it actually pains him to do so.

“We need a lot sugar to keep our energy up when we do magic,” Patrick explains, screwing up his face in distaste, “But I just – I really don’t like sweet things. I know,” he continues, holding a hand up before David can say anything, “Trust me, whatever joke or comment you’re going to make, I’ve heard it before. Yes, I _do_ wish life would throw me lemons, instead. I’m a fan of sour. Anyway, I almost forgot – since I couldn’t do this before,” and he flicks his wrist – this time, materializing a familiar sheet of paper into this hand. “Your completed license form. I extracted the pertinent information out of everything you said last night.” He smiles, handing over the sheet. “Rose Apothecary – I like it. It’s _just_ pretentious enough.”

David takes the sheet, squinting back at him narrowly. “Would we call that ‘pretentious’, or, timeless?”

Patrick shrugs, that grin still fixed on his face. “Well, either way, give it a look-over, make sure we’re on the same page. If you’re happy with it, all you have to do is hand it in to Ray.”

David skims through the document. It’s—well, it’s perfect. Everything he was trying to say, neatly laid out on paper. Somehow, together, they’d bridged that insurmountable divide of thought to page, even though David has very little recollection of the actual process. It’s no Hana-san suncream, but a minor miracle nonetheless. “This is acceptable,” he says, finally.

“Great,” Patrick says. “Seems we made a good team. One more thing, though, before you—”

“Patrick!” comes a voice to their right, and some woman David vaguely recognizes from one of his mothers’ Jazzagals performances has stopped her car in the middle of the road, waving out at them. “Samantha’s getting her MBA next year! We can’t thank you enough for your help.”

Patrick ducks his head politely in response. “Thank you, Daisy, it was my pleasure.”

“You drop by any time, honey, we’ll rustle up some of my famous cherry pie,” she says, and Patrick waves as she drives off.

“Tutored her niece for her entrepreneurship exam,” he explains, off David’s questioning glance. “She actually met me through one of Twyla’s cousins, who I also helped with that course. There’s a few people around here who—”

“Oh, Patrick!” comes _another_ voice, and they proceed to be accosted by no less than _three_ other people in the time it takes for them to make their way from the motel over to Ray’s place. Everyone either knew someone who worked with Patrick, or worked with him themselves, and they all collectively just think he’s simply the _best_ thing that’s ever happened to the wider Elmdale County area. David thought _he_ had some kind of celebrity status, but Patrick is like a goddamn hometown hero in this place. At one point a literal, honest-to-god bird flies over to perch on his wrist, chirping merrily away to Patrick like he’s Cinderella dressed up in The Gap, by which point David begins to seriously consider that he actually fell into a coma yesterday and this is all just a hyperrealistic fever dream.

(“Animals love me,” Patrick admits, “Or, more accurately, they love magic. But I have absolutely no idea what they’re trying to say.”)

So, yes, it’s all sunshine and rainbows – that is, until Ronnie clocks them, just as they’re approaching their destination.

“Well well well, look who’s come slinking back,” she says, giving Patrick a disdainful eye. “Bold of you to show your face again around these parts, after the last time you darkened the doors of this town.”

Patrick meets her gaze, steady and unmoved. “Good to see you again too, Ronnie.”

“You watch out for that one, kid,” Ronnie tells David. “He’s got a good eye for business, I’ll give him that, but he’s slippery.” She fixes Patrick with a narrow look. “You stick around for the season, you better believe I want a rematch. And none of your magic spacetime bullshit, you take those stumpy little legs of yours and run like the rest of us.”

“Looking forward to it,” Patrick says, a touch of amusement in his voice, and Ronnie _hmms_ , giving him one last side-eye before continuing on her way.

“Okay, what was _that_ all about,” David asks. “Because she is _not_ a fan. What on earth did you do to her construction company?”

“Nothing, actually,” Patrick says. “She was trying to land a major contract, and had a great pitch all in place – but, she had friends in the industry who said the guy’s a real piece of work and, as she put it, ‘I need a white man to deliver the pitch.’ So, given I have ‘resting business face’, I made the perfect candidate.”

“‘Resting business face’?”

“Straight, white, male,” Patrick replies, and then, “Well, at least, two out of three ain’t bad, but _she’s_ batting zero for three, so.” _Oh_ , David thinks, putting that together with Alexis patting his lapel, and Patrick leaning away. _Well, there you have it._ “Humanity’s really got a ways to go on that front,” Patrick continues, “So, I’m always happy to be a body in a room, if it means the chance to level the playing field, give business-face a well-needed makeover.” He smirks, wry. “She was right – he _was_ an asshole, and Ronnie’s got him right in her pocket. That was a fun one.”

“Well, that all sounds reasonable,” David says. “So why does she hate you?”

“Oh, _that_ was a baseball thing,” Patrick says, airily. “There was a game during the contract negotiation period, and the rival team was short a player at the last minute and would’ve had to forfeit, so I agreed to pitch in. Unfortunately, her team ended up losing. She thinks I cheated, of course.” He scoffs, disparagingly. “As though a fairy couldn’t hit a homer without using magic.”

“I don’t know what that means,” David says, thinking vaguely about _The Simpsons,_ “But I’m sure you’re great at the baseball.” He steps up to Ray’s door, but Patrick puts his hand on his arm, only for a moment, halting his momentum. David can’t help but think, for a brief flash of time, about the juxtaposition of Patrick then, leant away from Alexis, and Patrick now, the light pressure of his palm through the fabric of David’s sweater.

“Before you go in, I just wanted to run through a couple things,” Patrick says, hands now firmly shoved into his pockets. “Which, I was going to do earlier, but we got, uh, sidetracked. Because you’re clearly new to this, and also, the concept of magic itself, I’d like to give you a quick primer on how this essentially works, if that’s alright with you.”

“Uh yeah, sorry about all of that, uh, yesterday,” David says, toying a little with the sides of the form.

“Don’t worry about it,” Patrick says, smiling warmly. “You kept me on my toes, and, honestly, I had fun. If I’m really honest, I haven’t had that much fun on a case in a while, so, really I should be thanking you for showing me a good time.”

“Oh, well in that case, you’re welcome,” David replies, his hackles lowering and a smile pushing up into the space left behind. “Wish I could remember.”

“Well, let me give you a quick refresher, at least on the technical parts,” Patrick says. “You made a specific request to get magical assistance with this form you are about to hand over to Ray. By helping you fill it out, I have to log the request as complete, which means our contract is voided.”

“So, once I hand this form in, that’s it,” David says. “Job’s done, you skip town. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Exactly,” Patrick replies. “But, as with any contract, you can choose to extend it with an additional request. Which I can then choose whether or not to accept.”

“Okay,” David says, slowly.

“I wouldn’t necessarily be suggesting an extension if I didn’t see merit in it.” Patrick’s tone is light, but his cadence is more careful. “As I see it, you’re pretty cash-poor at the moment.”

“Well, congratulations, Nancy Drew, you figured it out,” David retorts. “Welcome to the last three years of my life. My whole family is literally living in a _cursed motel._ Can’t believe you cracked the case!”

Patrick laughs. “No, David, I mean, you’re cash-poor, but comparatively asset-rich – you don’t have a lot of liquidity, right now, because most of your money is sunk into the store lease. You paid a lot upfront, which is good, that provides security on your biggest asset, but it cuts your buying power significantly. In short, you have a great idea, but you need more money.”

“Okay,” David says, again. “So how do I go about getting more money?”

Patrick shrugs, giving him a sly smile. “All you have to do is ask.”

David deliberates, for a few seconds. “Why me?” he then asks, instead. “You said you get a choice, too. There must be thousands— _millions_ of people out there who need your help, so, why me?”

“Alright,” Patrick says, and steers him _away_ from Ray’s door and back out onto the sidewalk. “There’s a few things to unpack, here, so—” he stops at a bench, taking a seat, indicating for David to sit down beside him. “I’ll start with this: I’m not the only, uh, ‘business fairy’, as you put it, out there. I mean, could you imagine being responsible for fulfilling the contracts of the _entire world?_ That’s some Santa-maths, right there.” And, before David can try to deconstruct that sentence, and figure out if Patrick is inferring that _Santa_ is _also_ real, Patrick forges ahead, “In fact, my beat is mostly rural southern Ontario, though I’ll take on jobs further afield if the circumstances call for it. As for why _you,_ specifically – I’ll admit, the request itself was interesting. Not often I get asked for help filling out a single form.”

“Well, uh, I wasn’t really intending to actually _ask,_ ” David says. “It was just—Alexis was being annoying, and I just made some off-hand comment. I wasn’t actually _looking_ for help.”

“See, that’s the thing, that’s where you’re wrong,” Patrick replies, and flips his hand – a blue Motorola RAZR appears in a burst of sparkle-rain, and this David _does_ remember from last night, because he definitely hasn’t seen a phone like that in at _least_ ten years. “Your intent is what sold me, whether you were aware of it or not,” Patrick continues, tapping out something, and then passing it over to David. Instead of the general screen-button split across the two halves he was expecting, however, the entire body is one long block of shifting light, undulating slowly through the space. “Listen,” Patrick urges, motioning for him to put it to his ear.

 _“Dear business fairy…”_ he hears, again, but the actual words seem fuzzy and insignificant against the _depth_ of what he’s hearing, like he’s staring through an infinite mirror with his ears, because he can somehow hear his own _feelings –_ irritation, on the surface, then a familiar fear, _I can’t fail, I can’t live with failure, this is too important,_ and then, deeper still, determination, a _hunger_ he didn’t even know he had, _I want to do this, I need to do this, this is for me. _

“Ow,” David says, blinking into the light. At some point, he apparently closed his eyes – likely as some form of compensation for the sensory overload thrust upon him. “Holy fuck, that is intense. Is it like this all the time? For you?” Realization hits him, and, for a second, his blood runs cold. _If you’re in my head right now, please leave,_ he thinks, eyeing Patrick warily. _This is not an open house._

“Thankfully, no,” Patrick says dryly, taking back his magic retro phone. “I can’t read your mind, David, so you have to put all those thoughts into your words for any follow-up requests. For obvious ethical reasons, subconscious intent is only coded into the initial request package to establish motive, so we can make an informed choice in picking a client.”

“Right,” David replies, a little more mollified at least.

“So, for me, I’m not interested in helping anyone who is doing something for the wrong reasons,” Patrick continues. “You could’ve wanted my help to get rich again, get back to your old life – in which case, I wouldn’t have showed. But, in the moment you asked, you just wanted to prove yourself. That’s why I said yes.”

“Okay,” David says, feeling a little _too_ seen for this particular morning stroll. Thankfully, this is all just business – as weird as that is to put into context – because he does _not_ have the capacity to handle that kind of sincerity with any form of personal investment. “Um, well that is, a nice sentiment. To hear.” He clears his throat, fiddling with one of his rings. “So, I guess… what do I do. Do I just ask?”

“Just ask,” Patrick affirms. “Clear mind, clear intent. Lay it on me.”

“Uh, alright,” David begins. “Patrick, can you please help me get more money? For the store,” he clarifies, hastily, “Not for like, personal, uh, gain. Strictly business.”

The magic phone buzzes in Patrick’s hand, and he flips it open, giving it a quick tap. “Done,” he says, grinning. “Now we’re in business. Let’s get that form in, and then we’ll get you some more capital.”

*

David’s life, from this point on, becomes generally centered on rebates, HST, and pixie dust. Patrick introduces him to the world of small business grants, repayable funding, vouchers, and tax incentives. Patrick also introduces him to the fact that having a fairy on retainer means being subject to said fairy’s warped sense of fun, and the inside jokes they apparently now share – mainly regarding David having the audacity to not believe in magic – as Patrick turns up one day, wryly smirking, with a book. On the cover, in glittery bold font, reads _From Spell to Check: The Ultimate Guide to Practical Magic in the Workplace._

“Just the introductory course,” he assures David, with a wink. “If a spot opens up in the advanced classes, I’ll take it under consideration.”

“Thank you,” David replies, brushing spots of glitter off of his hands. “I will definitely _consider_ reading it.”

Anyway. With Patrick assuring him, in very bold terms, that he’s ‘gonna get the money’, David starts approaching vendors with relish (amongst other condiments). This is one of his strengths, from the gallery days – seeking out pieces that will perfectly fit his space, and convincing the artists to lean into his vision. Unfortunately, unlike the gallery days, it’s not a matter of grab and go. For starters, David has to think about the fact that certain items are taxed differently and how that’s going to cut into his bottom line, because apparently equality has not caught up to the goods community. The tea he ends up sourcing from an old farmer who, interestingly, uses hydroponics in his growth setup, is a service tax zero-rated good – but the Irish coffee premix is, unfortunately, not. And no, Patrick, there really isn’t a lot of ‘fun’ in fungible commodities. Not to mention that the company providing his credit card machine wanted a _five percent_ merchant fee, until Patrick intervened and pointed him to a company that brought it down to three. And if he has to look at _one more_ insurance provider he might just crawl under the desk and never reemerge.

“Do you have a car?” he asks Patrick, who has been perched atop the cashier desk watching David take three calls before noon, disappearing only to return with a shit-eating grin and a bucket of popcorn to munch on while David had gotten into it with his bank on call #2. He feels little solace in the dire expressions Patrick had made every time he picked out one of the M&Ms he’s got in the mix. “Because my Dad has run off on some motel errand, according to the stupid sign-out sheet we have for the family car, and I have like five places I need to be today and I don’t have a ride, so.”

“I don’t, actually,” Patrick says, hopping off the desk and giving him one of his patented bro-arm pats that are likely intended to be encouraging. Intricate rituals, it seems. “But I can definitely borrow one, for the day.”

Which is how, half an hour later, they end up in Daisy’s car – she of Samantha-who’s-getting-her-MBA – with Patrick at the wheel, and a warm cherry pie sitting in David’s lap. “Where are we headed first, then?” Patrick asks.

“We’re going to this place that does handmade soaps, first, it’s not far— here,” and David hands his phone over to Patrick, “I have all the destinations pinned on Maps.”

“Musgrove Estate,” Patrick says, noting destination number three. He lets out a low whistle. “That’s a big get. If you _can_ get it.”

David shrugs, easy-breezy. The whole accounting side of business may be a new dimension of hell, so vendor go-sees are almost a welcome break. “Mm, yeah, I like to warm up on a couple easy pitches first, hit the big one, then coast to the finish line. That’s how they do it in baseball, as I understand it.”

“Oh, big time,” Patrick assures him.

“Also, I’ve discovered the bigger vendors tend to do a really nice lunch spread. So, really, it’s the perfect day.” David takes a moment, considering. “You can come in, if you’d like. Maybe hang out in the back, do a little light mingling, scope out the snack selection so I know what the best pieces are…”

“While that seems like a very important task, I think you can manage it alone,” Patrick says, dryly. “I’ve got a few things I have to check up on, so I’ll be popping in and out. Just call me if you need me.”

David considers asking what these ‘few things’ are, and if they relate to the store, before reeling that all back in – Patrick is _just_ here until the grant money comes in, and the fact that he’s helping out with other things, like literally driving David to these appointments, is completely on his own dime. And he’s not even earning any, evidently. How do fairies get paid? Does magic cover that? But wouldn’t magicking in money really fuck with inflation, as he’s (unfortunately) beginning to understand it? Maybe he should actually read that stupid book. “Your little magic phone actually works as a phone?” he says airily, instead. “Wonders never cease.”

“Not in the way you think,” Patrick replies. “All you have to do is ask me to come, just like the first time. Clear mind, clear intent – so, don’t sample too much wine, or take a nap, because the call won’t go through.”

Patrick pulls into a short driveway, tires crunching on the gravel, Siri piping up that they’ve reached their destination. “Great. Well, thank you for driving me here, today,” David says, hopping out of the car. “I’ll try to be quick, so you don’t get too bored.”

Patrick smiles, propping his arm lazily up on the wheel. “Oh, I won’t be.”

What David suspects Patrick means by that is that he’ll sneak his way into his pitch meetings anyway, and he dedicates maybe more attention than he should to scanning the room for tell-tale trails of sparkles during his first stop. What Patrick _actually_ means by that, David discovers, is that he does ‘pop off’ somewhere else entirely, and doesn’t exactly coordinate his schedule with David’s. By the end of the second meet, David waits by the car for almost five minutes before Patrick pops back onto the sidewalk. “Oops, sorry, lost track of time a bit, there,” he says, sheepishly, unlocking the car. “I take it it’s going well?”

Lucky for Patrick, David’s glow of achievement outshines his annoyance at being made to wait at this point in time. “Two for two,” he says, smugly, sliding into shotgun. “And just in time, because the snack selection is regrettably slim at back-to-back craft vendors, so I am very much ready for lunch.” The empty cherry pie tin, its contents long consumed, flashes with an arc of light across its rim, as if in agreement, as he pulls the door shut.

“Batting a hundred then, are we,” Patrick replies, starting the engine. “On to the big leagues then. Round three, time to knock it out of the park.”

“Okay, when I used that sports metaphor before, as a nice gesture to you, I didn’t expect we would be continuing it, nor branching out into cricket, or whatever.”

“God forbid we branch out into cricket,” Patrick says, soberly. “No rest for the wickets.”

“I don’t know what that means, and I will not dignify it with a response,” David responds. Patrick just laughs, and turns up the radio, Carly Rae Jepson taking them up to the Musgrove Estate. Which is when David’s perfectly planned day starts heading south.

Musgrove Estate is – sprawling, in a word. Nothing like the terrible fruit wine his mother endorsed, this place has a reputation in the county that’s been well-earned – it’s no Lavaux or Marques de Riscal, but he’d had a glass of their chardonnay at one of the higher-end vendors he approached the previous week that had nearly brought him to tears with how perfectly drinkable it was compared to the absolute swill he’s been subsisting on for the past few years (see, again – the terrible fruit wine his mother endorsed).

Elaine Musgrove – short, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, ostensibly the matriarch of the Musgrove family – gives him a tour of the cellar door. “Of course, we’re not in a VQA growing region like Niagara or Prince Edwards, but our wines are all certified. We also produce a lovely grape jam with any of the less desirable grapes we harvest.”

“That is _very_ lovely,” David replies, eagerly consuming the grape jam-slathered wedge of pecorino he was offered. He’ll have to ask Elaine where she gets her cheese. “So, I imagine a lot of people buy directly from your cellar door?” As she nods, he continues, “Well, if you allocate a supply to Rose Apothecary, I can promise that—”

“I’ll stop you right there, dear,” Elaine says. “We have a room upstairs already set up for your pitch, and I believe the rest of the family is already seated.”

“The… rest of the family?” David asks hesitantly.

Elaine smiles, genteel. “Well, yes, my sons and daughters and the in-laws, and I suppose our business manager too, and our lawyer was in the neighborhood, so I hope you don’t mind her sitting in as well – I guess I do consider them all family. Anyway,” she continues, ushering him out, “The projector setup in the anteroom should work with any slide formats – do forgive me, I did mean to direct you to my son Phillip when we arrived to get your presentation loaded into our system, he’s the best with computers, but it completely slipped my mind! Ah, well. Hopefully, it will all be smooth sailing.”

“Uh-huh,” David says, feeling rather faint, “Yes, I mean, of course, I would be happy to, uh, show you how your products will thrive at Rose Apothecary, but is it necessary to be so _formal_ with the presentation? Because, I was thinking, just having a nice chat over lunch—”

“Mr. Rose, you are not the first person to come courting our family for a little slice of our pie. In fact, we’ve had two potential distributors come in just this morning! Of course, if you’re not prepared, you’re welcome to make an appointment next month.”

“No, no, you’re right, can’t keep everyone waiting,” David says hastily. “Do you mind if I just quickly use your bathroom?”

He ducks into the bathroom Elaine directed him to, locking the door, and— _Patrick,_ he thinks, looking at his own terrified face in the mirror, _is this like Beetlejuice, do I have to say his name three times, or something—_ he squeezes his eyes closed, gripping the edge of the sink— _god, this is stupid,_ _Patrick-Patrick-Patrick, I need your help, can you please come and—_

“Funny place for a pitch meeting,” Patrick says, and David whips around to clock him sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, sparkles winking out into the air as he surveys the bathroom. His eyes meet David’s, and a smile stretches slowly across his face. “Oh, but this is definitely still at the winery. Look at you, just filled with _terroir_.”

“Great joke, Ted Mullens,” David hisses, “The entire Musgrove family are apparently expecting a full presentation with-with slides, and transitions, and quarter projections, and I have about a minute to come up with something before I have to leave this bathroom or risk Elaine Musgrove assuming I am doing something in here that I do _not_ want her assuming, so, can you please give me something I can work with. Literally anything, just, quick and dirty, I don’t care.”

“Quick and dirty, huh,” Patrick says, amused, and if David didn’t want to die before, he _definitely_ does now. “Well hey, buy me dinner first.” He hits the handle on the toilet, the gurgle of the flush filling the space, and comes over to the sink, budging David to the side with his hip. “Faucet,” he instructs, and David quickly runs the tap as Patrick magics in a laptop. “Okay, thirty seconds of handwashing, let’s make it count. Rule of thumb for longer form presentations is around a minute a slide, but to really make a pitch ‘pop’ we’re talking short, seamless transitions.” He waves his hand, and, in a flurry of color, slides flash up from the laptop screen onto a grid on the mirror. “Define the ‘problem’ quickly, in the first couple of slides – your sizzle reel needs to outline, most of all, how they’re gonna make money. You can have as many words as you want in your pitch deck, but they need to be large and sparse on the screen…”

Patrick works quickly and confidently, each flick of his wrist stacking together elements onto slides, effortlessly maneuvering text into place, lighting up the air with business magic. Halfway through, he even pops a stick of licorice into his palm, taking a pained bite without missing a beat. It’s mesmerizing, and yet David can somehow follow everything he’s saying, and, even more surprisingly, _it all makes sense_. Then, all too quickly, Patrick is pressing a USB stick into his sweaty palms. “You’ve got this,” Patrick assures him, _sotto voce_. “I’ll be in your ear the whole time, okay?” He turns off the faucet, and gives David a gentle push. “Go. Don’t keep them waiting!”

David does as he’s told, opening the door, and nearly jumps when Elaine’s stern, wizened face is revealed on the other side. “Seemed like quite a while you were running that faucet,” she murmurs disapprovingly. David shifts, nervously, waving away a mosquito buzzing around his ear. “Water is a precious resource. We don’t take kindly to wastefulness.”

“Uh, well, I like to practice good hygiene, which is so important, when you’re working with wine,” he dithers, and then nearly jumps _again_ when a familiar voice pipes up in his ear.

“Don’t freak out,” Patrick says, nowhere to be seen but at full, speaking volume – and oh, sure, _little late for that_, David thinks, clearing his throat to cover his reaction, trying his best not to peer over his shoulder like a crazy person. When Patrick said he was going to be in David’s ear the whole time, apparently he meant that _literally._ “Bring up the recent heavy rainfall in the area.”

“And, of course, I would normally truncate my routine if not for the rains we’ve been blessed with, recently,” David tells Elaine, as Patrick feeds some oenological facts into his ear, “I’m sure the reduction in soil salt has been very beneficial for this years’ crop. Of course, if you’ll show me to the antechamber, I’ll be happy to demonstrate how your high projected yield will translate into a very nice profit margin when your wine is paired with the Rose Apothecary.”

Elaine smiles, extending her arm gracefully. “Well, Mr. Rose, by all means.”

*

“That was _amazing_ ,” David crows, sliding back into the front seat of the car. “Oh my god, their premium vintages, Rose Apothecary branding for the chardonnay, and exclusivity on the grape jam. Why haven’t we been doing that for every vendor?”

“ _That_ ,” Patrick says, firmly, pulling back out onto the road, “Was a one-time thing.”

“Oh, come on,” David wheedles, “We killed in there. Why mess with a sure thing?”

“It was fun,” Patrick agrees, flicking a quick smile over to him. “But it is _also_ not why I’m here, and, more importantly, it’s not what you want.”

David frowns, slightly irritated at how underwhelming Patrick is being at their win. “Um, I’m pretty sure I got _exactly_ what I wanted, here, and then some.”

“No, you _want_ to successfully run a business,” Patrick counters, “Not an easy win, not one that’s handed to you. Something you’ve earned. Which means you need to be able to give that same presentation on your own merit, without any assistance from me.” He gives David a sidelong glance, eyebrows raised, and David’s indignation peters out, because… he’s right. But then again, he always seems to be. It’s weird to know someone for so short a time, and have them know you so well. Weird for that to not… _feel_ so weird. But maybe that’s just magic – the fact that David revealed his cards right from the jump, played back to him on, of _all things_ , a Motorola RAZR.

Patrick nods to himself, eyes back on the road, and continues. “So, first lesson, for today: you need to walk your talk. A pitch is only as good as the foundations it’s built on. Some people will happily go along with face value, if you dazzle them enough – and you can, you’re good at that – but anyone who gives you one big push can bowl you right over. Right now, you’re the straw house, and you need to build the brick, and that means research, it means planning, and it maybe even means using that printer at the motel to get some hard-copies of that work you can hand out to vendors like the Musgroves, the next time you pitch one.”

“Well, let’s hope our next two stops don’t require meticulously-prepared pitch presentations,” David grumbles, as the long grasses blur together in a rich tapestry of green outside his window.

“If they do, I am open to a one-time extension of my one-time offer to the end of the day,” Patrick says, teasing rich in his tone, “Though service fees may apply.”

David never gets to find out what ‘service fees’ pertain to when it comes to business magic, because, thankfully, the next two vendors are happy to just sit down and entertain his pitch in an informal chat setting. Unfortunately, though, both of these vendors – the ones that were supposed to be his ‘coast to the finish’ – end up _rejecting_ him.

“Lesson number two,” Patrick says, as David settles sulkily back into the car after the last stop of the day, “You can have the world’s best pitch, but you can’t account for free will.”

“Ugh,” David groans. “But it makes no _sense_ that Priya doesn’t want to supply her hand lotion at the store, she’s actively _losing_ money on her current business model. This is a great opportunity! Can’t you just go in there, and like—”

“David,” Patrick says, gently, “This is a good thing. I know it doesn’t _feel_ like it, but, to have a healthy business, you actually need to lose, sometimes. If all you do is win, eventually you’ll monopolize the industry, and you’ll force other people out of business. Having competitors, a little healthy rivalry, it keeps you sharp, drives you to innovate, to always strive to improve your business and how you manage it. You just need to learn to cope with failure.”

Huh. Now _that’s_ a blind spot. “Oh, trust me, when it comes to rejection, I am _very_ well-versed. I’m basically the Bill Gates of failure.”

Patrick _hmms._ “From what you told me about the galleries, you never failed to sell a piece, because your parents were buying them via proxy.”

“I’m more referring to my personal life?” David clarifies. “While some might call me beloved—”

Patrick snorts. “That might be a stretch.”

“—mm, well, historically, my relationship status has been extremely changeable. Like, it could come with an epilepsy warning. Which, coincidentally, I did date an epileptic person for a hot minute, and that’s not just an expression, it was literally like a minute, since they dumped me right at the door to the restaurant – which, really, was Alexis’ fault, because when I asked for a ‘flashy’ restaurant to impress a date, I did not mean that _literally._ Uh, anyway. I’m fine on that front. You don’t need to worry about me.”

A beat, and then Patrick says, with what could only be described as sardonic confidence, “Yeah, David, I don’t actually think that’s right.”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t speak to your past, but, looking at your most recent relationship, I’d say you’ve been going pretty steady.”

“My most recent—so, the guy I dated who actually wanted to loop me into a throuple with Stevie? That relationship?”

Patrick laughs. “No, but I would _love_ to hear more about that.”

“Absolutely not,” David replies. After a moment, he relents. “He’s a carpenter, or, woodworker, or whatever. He made that one chair at the store.”

“Makes sense why you didn’t want to give it up when we met,” Patrick says, slyly. “But no, I’m actually talking about a sweet, charming person, new to town, that you’ve been spending all your time with. Kinda funny last name.”

 _Wait,_ David thinks, _what?_ and then, sneaking a glance at Patrick, feeling a little sweaty, for some reason, _does he mean—are we—?_ “Um, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“’Course you do,” Patrick begins. “It’s Rose. Rose—”

“—Apothecary,” David finishes, feeling—he’s not actually sure if he’s relieved, or… anyway. “Wow. Just, bravo. Don’t quit your day job.”

“I’m serious,” Patrick says, grinning. “A business is like a relationship. The more you care, the more you put in the time, the more it flourishes. And you’ve been putting in the work, David – you’re committed, you’re conscientious, and Rose is thriving.”

David looks, very fixedly, out the window. “Great, well, good to know.”

“But it’s also what you need to be careful of, because the more you invest in something, fiscally and personally, the bigger that specter of failure can loom. It’s the cost of caring, you know? So, if you’re saying you’ve never invested deeply enough in anything before, well, even more reason to learn to manage it.”

Flashes of farmhouses begin encroaching on the rolling fields as they draw closer to the Schitt’s Creek town limits. David turns to look ahead, keeping Patrick in the corner of his eye. “Okay, so how do you manage it?”

“Caring about something, fearing failure?” Patrick drums his fingers at the wheel for a moment. “Well, there’s very little uncertainty in my life, for the most part. I’ve always known who I am, and what I want. Comes with the territory. Humans can spend their whole lives figuring that out, and I like that – getting to have the journey, you know? Maybe ending up somewhere you didn’t expect.” He tilts his head over to David, smile tempered soft, and David flicks his eyes back to the road, cheeks burning a little at getting caught staring. “Still,” Patrick continues, “In this line of work, it does come up, occasionally. And it never really gets any easier. I do my best, I try to make good choices, and, at the end of the day – if it’s meant work out, it will. If it doesn’t, I know it’s not on me, because I’ve put in everything I can, and if it’s out of my control, there’s nothing else I could’ve done anyway. Free will, as I said. So, I just – take a breath, pick myself up, and keep going.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and David thinks that’s the end of it, but then he pipes up again. “Oh, and David? Just so you know, I’m not just here out of obligation. I do enjoy spending time with you. You’re one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.”

Now his cheeks really _are_ burning. He sneaks a quick glance over to the drivers’ seat – Patrick’s _tone_ didn’t seem sarcastic, but there’s no way he could have been sincere. “Well,” David says, eventually, “Give it time.”

“Right now, it’s on our side,” Patrick says, smiling, eyes on the road stretched out ahead.

*

With more and more vendors signing onto the store and delivering stock, David enlists Alexis for some extra help. Because as much as he appreciates Patrick hanging around – because, really, Patrick seems happy to help out with anything he asks, even though his active wish contract only stipulated ‘getting more money for the store’ and, technically, all David’s doing right now is burning through it – he’s not paying him to be here, and Patrick should have the freedom to do… whatever it is he does, in his own time. Side hustles? Magic investing? His own line of business casual wear, exclusively in blue? David should really read that book. Eventually.

With Alexis, however, _help_ really is a relative term, considering she spends most of the time just sampling all of his products. “Isn’t it _so soft?”_ she’s saying, as David comes out of the back room.

“It is,” Patrick agrees, politely, as Alexis attempts to flirtatiously strangle him with one of their premium ‘catsmere’ knits. “Whoa, might be tying it a little tight, there.”

Knowing that Patrick has no reason to be interested in Alexis – not that it _matters_ , per se, but, just, as a point of principle – it’s almost fun to watch this play out. “That is actually cat hair,” David informs Patrick. “There’s a Himalayan breeder up the street that knits them for us. Hi.”

“Hi,” Patrick replies, craning his neck around to greet David with a quick smile. “I’m just dropping off your business license, and, apparently, activating my allergies.” Before David can advise him to take it off post-haste, because he was assured the scarves are _very_ high thread count, Patrick dematerializes into a cloud of sparkles, reappearing at David’s right. The scarf, now vacated of a neck, droops sadly from Alexis’ outstretched hands.

“How does a fairy even _have_ allergies?” David asks. “You can’t just… magic them away?”

“Yeah, I wish,” Patrick replies, ruefully. “Remind me to tell you one day about the petting zoo case I was assigned to. Ended up having to put all animal-related calls on my blacklist, just to be safe. Anyway, speaking of business—” he flicks his wrist, and David’s business license, set into a silver frame, pops into his hands. “Congratulations, David, you’re officially incorporated.”

“Oh, you got it framed!” Alexis pipes up. “David, isn’t that the sweetest thing?”

The frame is… fine. It’s a perfectly adequate frame. But it is _not correct_ for the aesthetic he’s building for the store, and the thought of that slight disruption in his flow makes David itch, as though Alexis had been strangling _him_ with a cat-hair scarf. “Um, it is very sweet,” he says, trying not to let all of that slip into his voice. “Thank you, Patrick.”

The problem is, Patrick’s already seen David looking over products with potential vendors, so, unfortunately, has a measure for his sincerity. “Hmm,” he says, neutrally. “You don’t like it.”

“No, it’s really, a very nice thought,” David hedges, “It’s just a little too _corporate_ for my brand, so—”

“Hey, say no more, I’ll get it swapped out,” Patrick replies, and then him and the license are gone.

Alexis whaps him on the arm. “Oh my god, David, you don’t refuse a gift from a fairy!” she hisses. “It’s super offensive, like, the time Mom wore Grandma’s mink to that PETA mixer. Literally after the whole thing in Siberia, I wore those hideous cubic zirconia earrings Ricardo gave me for a whole year until I ‘accidentally’ lost them in the ocean when we were on that yacht in Bora Bora.”

“Oh, right, for _A Little Bit Alexis_ ,” David recalls. “Didn’t the producers of _Keeping Up With The Kardashians_ sue you for that?”

Alexis gasps, momentarily delighted. “Oh my god, you’re right, that’s so funny. _Yes_ , I was on the phone like, ‘no, Kim, you can’t trademark earrings falling off the ocean, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever—‘” She blinks, and then whaps him on the arm _again_. “Ugh, David! Focus! Whatever Patrick brings back, just tell him you love it, okay? We already live in a cursed motel, don’t add the store to that list.”

A throat is cleared, and David and Alexis both whip around to where Patrick is now standing, again, by the door. “Uh, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but, to be fair, I didn’t realize neither of you noticed I was back? My regular framing place is actually closed right now, I lost track of the time zones –anyway, David, Alexis _is_ right on that part, as a culture we’re very serious when it comes to our barter economy, but that’s not really _my_ speed, personally, so – it’s okay if you don’t like the frame.”

“It’s not that I don’t _like_ it,” David clarifies, “It’s just that the style doesn’t fit the branding of the store. This is very, like… executive office, not so much chic-yet-cozy branded boutique.”

“Noted,” Patrick says, dryly. “Well, why don’t you pick out a frame that says ‘chic-yet-cozy branded boutique’ and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Actually, I was thinking, since you’re already helping out with the business, I could maybe give you a few pointers on aesthetic design? I mean, it would be helpful for me, at least, not to have to rearrange items you unpack.”

Patrick smiles, slowly, dimpling his cheeks. “I’d like that.”

“Ooh, and Patrick could help me with my business homework,” Alexis cuts in. “It would be like, a cute little study date for all of us.”

“Mm, absolutely,” David replies. “Great idea, Alexis. I’m thinking like a weekdays between nine and two would be the perfect fit for our schedules.”

Alexis frowns. “Okay, but weekdays between nine and two are my school hours, David, you could literally have not have picked a worse time.”

“Well, that is such a shame,” David says, airily, as a grin sneaks out behind the hand Patrick has pressed to his chin, “But I guess majority vote carries the motion.”

“Honestly, Alexis, I don’t actually think you need my help,” Patrick assures her. “From what I’ve seen, you’ve got a great grasp of the basics, so all you have to do is apply them. Since I can’t exactly do your homework for you, there’s not much I can actually help _with_ either way.”

“You’re so sweet,” Alexis says, giving Patrick a few quick pokes to the collarbone, as is her way of illustrating that sort of sentiment. “Well, I’ve got to go meet Twyla for lunch, so I’ll just—”

“Wait,” David says, and plucks a tube of hand cream out of her open bag, to her squawk of indignation. “Okay. _Now_ you can go.”

“I do have a confession to make,” Patrick says, once the ringing of the bell has faded from Alexis’ departure. “Your business license was not the only thing that arrived today.” He flicks his wrist, materializing a letter into his hand.

“The major grant we—” David begins, and then corrects himself, “Um, I, applied for. I got the money?”

“You got the money,” Patrick confirms. “The last of your new capital stream. So, a second set of congratulations, for today.” But, as David reaches out for it, Patrick pulls it back, hesitant. “Uh, but, just to be clear, since this _is_ the last application you’re getting back, this will mean—”

“—It’s the end of the contract,” David finishes, drawing his own hand back, slowly. “Right.” Patrick taps the letter against his knuckles, for a few beats, expression unreadable. “Um,” David continues, frantically casting around for something. “I mean, having the money is great, obviously, but making sure it’s funneled into the right places for the store is, uh—I mean, really, the whole thing could collapse if I make the wrong investment. So, I’d really want some, um, help with that. At least until the opening.”

There’s a buzzing noise, and Patrick fishes his fairy phone out of his pocket, flipping it open. “Deal,” he says, his smile warm and bright as he hands David over the letter with his other hand. David tears it open, and the amount is – god, it’s more money than he’s seen in _years_ , but, somehow, it feels like less of an accomplishment than managing to trick the universe into letting Patrick stay around a little longer.

“Now,” Patrick is saying, teasingly, “I believe I was promised a design course, free of charge.”

“Well,” David replies, aiming for aloof and landing far too fond for his liking, “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

*

Under Patrick’s guidance, David starts directing his hard-won capital into where the store needs it most. And, under _David’s_ guidance, Patrick learns about color theory, and blocking, and aesthetic design, which, given his talent for making beautifully constructed slides and presentations, shouldn’t be the Sisyphean task it turns out to be. Unfortunately, it seems Patrick came into this world woefully lacking any sense of style and taste, and that’s something no amount of magic can fix. Though, watching Patrick flash-magic things around the store in a spray of glitterdust under David’s instructions like he’s been dropped into some scene from _Harry Potter_ (which Patrick assures him is _not_ an accurate depiction of magic) is, if not educational, just a very entertaining viewing experience. Maybe this is how Patrick felt, eating popcorn and watching David yell about invoicing down the phone. They do make quite the pair.

And then everything goes to shit, because his mother invites his ex to town. Or, more, his ex invites _himself_ to town, allegedly for a ‘consult’ on a ‘collaborative project’ that she’s all excited about and David just knows, he just _knows_ that nothing fucking good can come of this.

Sebastien Raine is all the things about his old life he used to think he loved – cultured, well-traveled, the kind of good-looking that one can nurture with expensive nutrition plans and sculpt with even more expensive nips-and-tucks, but in a way that looks like they were just _born_ with it, like they just effortlessly rolled out of bed and onto a fashion shoot. But then everyone looks like that, in New York, even the people behind the cameras – at least, the ones who can afford it, the ones who ‘matter’. Everyone wants their time in the sun, with these gorgeous, radiant people, and the glow feels so good against your skin – at least, until you get burnt, because the sun doesn’t love you, it’s a giant, unfeeling ball of nuclear flame in the cold, dark vacuum of space, and that’s why SPF is second only to moisturizer in a basic daily regime.

Anyway. Predictably, because Sebastien doesn’t have a single altruistic bone in his body (and, if he did, it would have been removed to help give his figure a ‘cleaner aesthetic line’), his sole purpose of traveling to Schitt’s Creek is to use her for his own gain, and his mother can’t see it – she’s still so starry-eyed about any possibility of bringing back the glitz and glamor of yesteryear that a hangman’s rope looks like a lifeline until it’s too late. _I leaned in, David,_ _why don’t you try it sometime,_ she tells him, once she loses her cheerful edge at the end of their ‘consult’ turned ‘Sebastien manipulates her into taking many a forlorn, frumpy photo in the untamed, derelict parts of town, so he can probably sell some tragic piece that he’ll title something like ‘ _As the Last Petals Fall: A Rose in Isolation._ ’ So David leans the fuck in. He puts together his best Old Life outfit – no soft, comfortable sweaters, he picks out a dark tee and black leather jacket, clean cut, all angles, cold dark vacuum of space ready to get all lit up by the fucking sun – and heads over to the room Sebastien’s booked for the night.

The thing is, though, once David gets into it – his plan to let Sebastien seduce him, then steal the microchip from his camera and destroy it somehow, drop it in a drink or something – he’s not really _into_ it. Like, sure, physically, whatever. Sebastien’s New York-handsome, knows it, knows how to _use_ it, and, more importantly, _where_ to use it on David’s body – which is how he managed to string him along for the few months that they were together in what is, ostensibly, the longest relationship David’s ever had. But, as Sebastien mouths wetly at his neck, angled across him as David lies partially propped up at the headboard of the bed, he just finds himself _bored_. There’s just nothing about Sebastien that’s interesting to him, anymore. He’d rather be back at the store, doing vendor research, or doing stocktake, or literally any of the boring minutiae that come with his new venture. In fact, he really wishes Patrick was here, instead, haranguing him about some line item he’s missed in the budget—then Sebastien bites at his jawline, and he gasps, a frisson of heat running through him, for a second, as Sebastien hums his approval, because he was—Patrick, he was thinking about Patrick, and then the wires got crossed and it was Patrick’s mouth at his jaw, instead, and it’s… fine. It’s fine, it’s good, David needs Sebastien to think he’s into this, and if this works, somehow, then – lean in.

He thinks about Patrick. He squeezes his eyes closed and really tries to picture him, here, in this room – dark eyes, cocky grin, his deft, clever hands framing David’s face, angling him right where he wants him, sweeping around to grip and tug at the hair at the nape of his neck. _Fuck_ , he thinks, groaning low in his throat, tilting his head back – god, he’s always had a thing for a shorter person manhandling him, directing him exactly where they want him, there’s something so fucking hot about it – Patrick counts the ridges of his throat with his teeth, hands under David’s shirt, nails filed sensibly short sweeping across his chest, catching at his—

“God, you’re so responsive,” Sebastien comments. “You really wanted this, didn’t you – I could tell, as soon as I walked into the motel this morning—” _Shut up,_ David thinks, irritably, grabbing his stupid face and pulling him into a kiss, _don’t ruin the moment, where were we_ —Patrick parts his lips, tongue pressing in, insistent, licking into David’s mouth in a way that sends shivery heat running down his spine, pooling low and heavy. His hands dip lower, too, teasing at the skin at his hips, dipping into his waistband, and David breaks for air, breathing hotly against the slide of lips at his cheek, and there’s a sound – he opens his eyes, hazily, the motel keys on the side table the first thing to float into this vision, glinting under the light. _Room Five_ , the tag reads, and, _wait,_ David thinks, trying to sort through the fog in his brain, _wait, a second,_ and then he looks up.

Patrick, _actual_ Patrick, is standing over by the back wall, face flushed brilliantly red, arms crossed tightly to his chest, looking one part shocked and two parts pissed off. “Oh my _god,_ ” David yelps, jerking upright, and immediately grabs Sebastien’s head and shoves him into his neck to prevent him from turning around.

Sebastien chuckles, vibrations running across his skin. “Mm, you liked that, huh,” he says, muffled against David’s skin.

 _What the FUCK,_ Patrick mouths at him, gesturing wildly to Sebastien and then to the room at large. “Yes, let’s just, let’s keep you right there,” David says, voice spiraling up an octave despite his best efforts to keep it steady, and he’s sure Patrick can see the panic in his eyes as clear as day. “It’s all very good, um, let’s keep those up here, too—” because Sebastien’s hands are still roaming, and David picks them up and places them at his shoulders, like he’s chaperoning his own homecoming dance. With the hand not keeping Sebastien in place, he throws Patrick what he hopes is a significant look and tries to point at Sebastien’s camera.

“Feeling shy, are we,” Sebastien murmurs, worrying at the skin at his collarbone. “It must have been a while for you. Don’t worry, David, I’ll take good care of you tonight,” just as Patrick, even more incensed, mouths something-something- _take your picture?_

“ _No_ ,” David says, quickly, and then slams Sebastien back in place as he tries to move away, “I mean, yes, I’m just nervous, I guess I have a, um, a _chip_ , on my shoulder—” he gestures, even more emphatically, at the camera, “—about the way things ended, between us, not a big deal, even, a very small chip, a _micro_ chip, you could call it, and it’s maybe killing the mood for me a little—”

Distracted, his hand has slipped off Sebastien’s neck, and he pulls back, bracketing David’s face in both hands the way he had this morning, when they’d run into each other at the motel. “David,” he says, seriously, “You were on your own journey, and I just wanted to give you space to pursue that. And that journey brought you here.” Over his shoulder, Patrick picks up the camera, frowning. David tries to nod, as much as he can within Sebastien’s grip.

“It’s incredible,” Sebastien is saying, as Patrick, keeping a very guarded eye on him, clicks open the compartment housing the microchip, “Like, your life is basically performance art – the failure, and suffering, so beautiful, such an important piece of the human condition. I’m honestly kind of jealous that it’s something I’ll never get to experience.”

Patrick holds up the microchip, his other hand gesturing at it in a _is this what you’re on about?_ manner. “Yes, exactly, that’s what I want,” David says. Patrick folds the compartment back into place, setting the camera back on the table carefully. “Um, my life. Performance art. Super great.”

“What do you keep looking at?” Sebastien asks, frowning, and, before David can stop him, he starts to turn around—David grabs his jaw, pulling him in for a deep, searing kiss. When he resurfaces, Patrick is gone, without even a trace of magic sparkling in his wake.

“I just think, the thing is, for me,” David says, pushing him away and easing off the bed, “Is that my, uh, ‘journey’? Isn’t over, yet. And it doesn’t include you. So, I think I’m going to go, really _find my space_ to pursue it.” He gets up, giving Sebastien a gamely pat on the cheek. “Best of luck with your project. I think you’re very brave.”

He heads back to his room on an adrenaline high. Alexis isn’t in her bed, but the soft hum of running water in the background means she’s in the shower, and Alexis is in the shower means the bathroom will be out-of-bounds for quite some time. A few sharp knocks sound at his door, and David, heart in his throat for a second, thinks, _shit, was I being too obvious, did Sebastien figure it out—_

It’s not him. It’s Patrick, which, at this point, is both better and so, so much worse. “Can I come in?” he asks, tersely. David nods his assent, stepping aside to let him through, and Patrick strides through at a quick clip, pausing in the middle of the room to fish something out of his pocket. “Here,” he says, slapping the microchip into David’s palm. “I don’t need to know what’s so important about this, but I think you owe me, at the very _least_ , an explanation for why the hell you needed me in there to retrieve it. Because, David, I am not a—a _tool_ for you to use, for whatever reason, whenever you see fit.” He crosses his arms across his chest, tight, looking – for the first time David’s ever seen him – genuinely angry. And for that expression to be aimed at _him_ is almost more than he can bear.

David turns over the microchip in his hand, and again, unable not to fidget under the heat of Patrick’s ire. “I’m really sorry you had to, uh, see that, it really wasn’t what it looked like—I mean, it kind of _was_ , but not, the intention was not—can we sit down? I’m going to sit down.” He sits down on his bed, placing the microchip on his side table, and smooths his hands across his thighs, trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to explain this, because, like, what—he’s going to tell Patrick he accidentally summoned him while in the one room in this cursed motel where he actually _can_ , not necessarily to steal a microchip from Sebastien, but because he wanted to make out with _Patrick_ instead? But the alternative is that Patrick hates him, forever. He might still, either way – but, as humiliating as it is, Patrick is right – he owes him the truth.

“Um, so,” David begins, swallowing heavily, “Sebastien is my ex, and he’s a manipulative, soulless asshole who uses people and discards them when they have no more use to him. But he wasn’t here for me? This whole thing is actually about my mother, see, he’s a photographer, they used to work together, she met him when we were dating, and— anyway, it doesn’t matter, she thought he wanted to do a portfolio on her, to revitalize her career, but he basically wants to paint this picture of this sad, fallen woman, or, whatever, banished to this dead-end town, probably for some ‘where are they now’ piece. That’s what’s on the chip – he tricked her into taking all these photos that she doesn’t want put out there, and I needed a way to get the chip out of his hands, and—”

“So you were using yourself,” Patrick says quietly, to his left, and David starts – somehow, in the midst of his rambling, Patrick had moved to sit down next to him. His expression has softened into something more gentle, more open. “You were using yourself, as a tool, to help her out.”

“Well, in a sense, I suppose,” David replies. “But the whole thing with you it was honestly an accident, I didn’t actually mean to call you here at all, it was just, uh,” he pauses, steeling himself, and he can feel the embarrassment squirming in his gut, rising high on his neck, “The thing is, I was, um—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Patrick says. “Don’t worry, you don’t have to explain yourself. I get it.”

 _Oh god, am I that obvious?_ Fueled by the frenetic pump in his chest cavity, the embarrassment worm coils around his esophagus and _squeezes._ “You… do?” David manages, breathily.

“I mean, I just know if it were me in that situation,” Patrick says, careful and measured, “Maybe I would think I’d be fine going through with it, at first, but once I was there, maybe I wouldn’t be so sure. And I would want an out.”

“Oh, I—well, it wasn’t not really like _that_ ,” David hedges, half _deeply_ relieved at the out Patrick has unintentionally given him for the second time tonight _,_ and half… perplexed, maybe, because, it _wasn’t_ like that – was it? “I was fine, it would’ve been fine, it’s all just—it’s physical, right, I probably would’ve had a good time if I went through with it.”

“Clear mind, clear intent,” Patrick says, again, smiling ruefully. “The universe knows what you wanted, even if I didn’t, even if _you_ didn’t, at the time. My point still stands that bringing me into that situation was incredibly inappropriate, but… I’m glad that you did. Just, next time? Maybe we can sit down, and talk something like this through, put together a strategy before you run right into the fire. Market research, you know?”

“Sure,” David replies, smiling tentatively. “I’ll, um. I’ll pencil you in.”

The sound of running water in the background abruptly cuts off, and Patrick looks over to the bathroom, getting up from the bed. “I think that’s my cue to leave,” he says, wryly, making his way to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, David.”

“See you,” David says, quietly, as the door clicks shut and another door opens, Alexis emerging into the room in a cloud of steam.

“Ugh, I think my scalp is dry, or something,” she says, scratching at her head under the towel she’s got wrapped around it. “It’s all this hard water. And probably the curse. Speaking of, was that Patrick I heard in here before?”

“Mm, he just came to drop off something for the store,” David replies, vaguely. He looks over at the microchip – _I can probably just stamp on it, or something. Run it under some water for good measure._ He rubs at his eyes, blearily, feeling suddenly tired now his adrenaline’s run down. _In the morning. Then I’ll give it to Mom._

“Hm,” Alexis says, and something in the tone of her voice pulls his focus back sharply. “You know, I definitely think there’s something there.”

David resists the urge to roll his eyes. It _was_ fun at first, but now it’s getting stale. “Alexis, I’m sorry to break it to you, but I really don’t think he’s into you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about _me_ , David,” she says, giving him a very affected wink.

“He’s a business fairy who wears straight-legged, mid-range denim,” David says, after a moment, his heart ticking faster in his chest. Just from the bait-and-switch Alexis pulled on him, really. “He’s not into me.” And then he picks up the microchip from the table, heading into the bathroom, because maybe he feels like destroying it tonight after all.

*

Alexis has lice. Alexis has _lice_ , and David cannot be cohabitating with a million bloodsuckers _and_ his sister, so he propositions Stevie over breakfast for a late-night hang slash platonic sleepover, deliberately omitting the part where he might extend it a couple of days, depending on whether Alexis can clean up her act.

And what does he get? Resistance! Veiled swipes at his motives! Never mind that he’s never actually been to her place, and that, yes, he _is_ wearing a showercap under a knit hat to save himself from the great western march of the lice across the motel room, is it really such a crime to want to spend some quality time with a friend he hasn’t seen in weeks – Stevie’s words, delivered with not-so-subtle passive aggression – _only due_ to the fact that they are both thriving professionally – his words, delivered with all the pride he imagines Oprah would have if she were here, witnessing their hard work coming to fruition.

Besides, he’s still trying to navigate things with Patrick after the whole Sebastien incident. Not that things are weird – Patrick seems to have brushed the whole thing under the rug, springing right back to his cheerful, snarky self – but maybe it’s just him that feels weird. Not that there’s anything to feel weird _about_ , because they resolved that whole thing, but – anyway.

Stevie at least agrees to hang out at the store for the morning, which David considers, at a minimum, pre-acceptance of the lice prevention sleepover. “Have you seen his wings yet?” she asks, apropos of nothing, the bell on the door still ringing her return from the coffee run.

David grabs the proffered coffee with a muttered _thank you_ , downs a quarter of it on the first pass – god, he’s hungry, but he really wants to get these last boxes unpacked before lunch— “You have _wings?”_ he directs at Patrick, as his tired brain finally registers the very juicy packet of information Stevie has handed him in lieu of actual food. “Okay, now this I _have_ to see.”

The _looks_ Stevie has been throwing him this morning, smug and _knowing_ and exclusively out of Patrick’s line of sight, have his guard up. She’s up to something. David really hopes she hasn’t been talking to Alexis, about the whole _thing_ she thinks he and Patrick have, which they don’t. But, anyway, after Stevie and Patrick had both mercilessly ribbed him for his perfectly reasonable protective headware situation, having the focus shifted _off_ him feels like a small mercy she’s granted, and, at this point, he has absolutely no qualms about taking it.

Patrick pauses. With his back to him, David can’t see his expression, but after a moment, he resumes unpacking the box. “Well, for the purposes of my role here, they’re pretty much vestigial,” he says, lightly. Coming back around, he accepts his own coffee from Stevie, then takes a long swig, making a face at the taste – which means Stevie did remember to add those six or so sugars. “So, no, Stevie, David probably won’t have that particular honor unless there’s a business application that necessitates their use.”

“Well, there _is_ that box of decorative plates on the top shelf—” David begins, but he doesn’t even get to push his _and I don’t want to put my back out, so close to opening the store_ before Patrick simply snaps his fingers and the box _thunks_ down onto the table in front of them, in a cloud of rapidly dispersing pixie dust. “Right. Thank you, for, uh, that.”

“Happy to help,” Patrick says, smugly. David casts around for something else, but he’s drawing a blank—

“Those are nice shoes you’re wearing today, David,” Stevie comments, derailing his train of thought (admittedly, chugging towards a dead end). “Kinda like fancy Chucks, right?”

“Actually, they’re Rick Owens,” David corrects, suppressing the urge to wince – _fancy Chucks, ugh_ – “So like, about ten times the price of Converse, but, thank you.”

“Honestly, I think it’s pretty brave of you to wear white shoes,” she continues, popping the lid of her coffee and giving the contents a swirl. “I couldn’t do it. Too easy to get them messed up, you know? I’m pretty accident-prone.”

“Again, they’re not _white,_ technically this color would be described as milk. And, well, I was actually going to go with the black pair this morning, then decided on the milk at basically the last…” And he trails off, because Patrick, who has been uncharacteristically silent during this exchange, has stopped stacking body milks and is now staring narrowly at Stevie. Stevie, for her part, casually sips her coffee. “Okay, _what_ is happening here. Feel free to clue me in anytime.”

Patrick straightens up, crossing his arms against his chest. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t what?” Stevie replies. “Compliment David on his shoes? What, you don’t like them?”

“They’re very nice,” Patrick says, guardedly. “I’m sure it’s important to David that they stay that way.”

Stevie nods, emphatically. “Oh, I completely agree. That’s ten pairs of Chucks, right there.”

“To be clear, by ‘any time’, I meant this time. Like, right now,” David cuts in. “Can we all please stop being weird. Thanks so much.”

Patrick huffs out a breath, and then tilts his head back, briefly casting his eyes to the ceiling, seemingly breaking his and Stevie’s little stare-off. “This is dirty pool,” he informs her, the corner of his mouth twitching up, “But well played.”

Stevie mock-toasts him with her coffee, and then David forgets all about whatever the fuck was happening earlier because there’s a puff of sparklelight, and a pair of wings now protrude from Patrick’s sensible dress shirt.

“Oh, wow,” David says, and if it comes out a little more breathily than intended, it’s mainly the surprise of the moment that does it. His first impression is _insect-like_ – thin and filmy, with two long and two slightly shorter below – but he couldn’t be specific about it, since he makes it a priority to keep a healthy distance from any and all manner of flying insects, so – wasp, cicada, whatever. They’re individually mobile, flicking and twitching minutely, as if to test the air, but the main thing is—the bold, unmistakable truth of it is—

“You’re laughing at me,” Patrick says, flatly.

“I—no, not at all,” David says quickly, trying to smooth away the grin that’s slipped out. “No, it’s nothing, it’s just that—” he reaches out to Patrick just as he turns away, and is rewarded with an accidental _thwap_ of a wing to the hand for his efforts, “—sorry, again, what I meant to say is, they’re _blue_. It just really… your wardrobe now makes a lot of sense.”

“My— _wardrobe?_ ” Patrick says, indignant, swinging around to face him again. “What does that have to do with—so I color-coordinate, fine, you of _all_ people should be able to understand that. And, not only that, but all _you_ wear is black and white, so, pot meet kettle!”

David presses his hands to his mouth, trying in vain to stop the grin encroaching further onto his face. “No, I know, you’re right, it’s—sweet,” he says, surprised, because there’s something at his lips – without thinking, he dips one finger into his mouth, and then another, licking at the sweetness there, seemingly welcome remnants of this morning’s cinnamon bun. Lunch can’t come soon enough. “Um, I mean, practical,” he amends, belatedly. “Blue isn’t the new black, which is, of course, a timeless look, but honestly you could mix it up a little? Maybe throw in a mossy green, that would still work with the blue… are, uh, are you okay?”

Patrick’s eyes are suddenly very wide, his mouth dropped open, a flush peeking out from under his collar. He looks like, somewhere in the wardrobe discussion they’d been having, David had brought out a rifle and shot Bambi’s mom. His wings, too, are very twitchy. At David’s voice, he snaps out of it, a bit. “No, I’m um, I’m fine,” he says, faintly. “Go back to—what were you saying? Something about blue?”

David turns to Stevie, feeling the vague stir of irritation that he’s apparently missing something, again. “You’ve got a little something,” Stevie says, motioning at his mouth. David frowns, reaching up to touch his lips, before catching sight of his right hand.

“What—oh my _god,_ ” he yelps, rearing back. The light coating of blue glitterdust spread across his palm sparkles innocently with the movement. His index and middle finger are very notably clean. He looks at his sleeve, has only a nanosecond of indecision before going _absolutely not, this is couture, _and whips the Lice Hat off of his head, swiping it across his mouth instead and scrubbing his hand. The knit glints majestically in royal blue. What would happen, in theory, to any lice that _had_ snuck into those purls? God, what is going to happen to _him?_ “Do I need to see poison control?” he asks Patrick, somewhat shrilly. “Is this okay? Should I be trying to, to get it out right now? God, I haven’t—not since high school, but I think the trick still works—”

“It’s probably fine,” Patrick says, hastily. “It’s no big deal, I wasn’t even going to mention it, but I’m going to go check on that. But don’t worry, I’m sure it’s fine, you really don’t need to uh, to bring it back up, but I’m just going to—to go check,” and, with that, he disappears.

“Huh,” Stevie draws out, into the silence, as the sparkles in the air dissipate. “Do you think he’s coming back?”

“He’s—of course he’s coming back,” David says. They wait a few moments longer. “You know, he’s probably just—he’s got a lot of things to do. He said it’s fine, so – it’s fine.” He pauses. “Right?”

“Right,” Stevie echoes. A beat, and then, “Do you want to—”

“Get lunch? Yes,” David replies, grabbing the store keys – pausing only to whip the showercap off of his head, lice be damned.

*

Patrick doesn’t come back. Well, must have, at some point during lunch, because there’s a note propped up on the front desk reading _got a few errands to run, see you tomorrow. David you are going to be okay,_ followed by a little drawing of the thumbs-up emoji. In spite of himself, and in spite of the familiar nausea in his gut that says _you fucked up you fucked up now he hates you_ , that little detail makes him smile. It’s not the first time Patrick has gone off on some sort of fairy business and left him to his own devices – which David has appreciated in the past, if only to feel more assured that he _is_ actually just being advised, and not babysat – but with Patrick evidently away with the fairies and Stevie gone back to the motel for the afternoon, the store feels very large and very empty, no matter that boxes of goods cover every surface and then some.

So when it comes time for his and Stevie’s late night hang slash platonic sleepover, David fills Stevie’s apartment with positivity, with only the lightest sprinkle of sarcasm as a preface. Complimenting her décor, admiring her poster of Sarah McLachlan in her pride of place, and, again, is met with obstinate defiance – from accusations of bullying to really bad eggs. Though, he _did_ make his own choices when it came to those eggs, and more specifically, their consumption.

And the vodka certainly didn’t help.

“I shouldn’t have eaten those eggs,” David bemoans, to an unsympathetic ceiling.

Stevie, to his right, adds, “I can’t believe I’m trapped under a blanket with you, knowing you ate those eggs.” She pauses for a moment, then shifts – when David looks over, she’s rolled over to face him, hands clasped under her cheek. “So, you and Patrick, huh,” she says, in a tone David immediately distrusts. Though, the fact that her smile is nothing short of pure evil should’ve been the first red flag. “I like this for you.”

“There’s nothing to like,” David retorts.

“You guys just really seem to get along well.”

“He is only here to help me get the store ready for the opening, and, if you recall, I did something probably very culturally inappropriate earlier today and now he literally can’t be in the same room as me, so.”

“Yeah, why did you _eat_ it?” Stevie asks, still grinning. “You literally won’t even touch a clean sheet, but you’ll apparently just put anything in your mouth.”

“Okay, _ew,_ ” David replies, affronted, “There’s no—both of those things can be true. I contain multitudes. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, with that and the whole Sebastien thing, I’m pretty sure he’s just counting down the days at this point.”

“The ‘Sebastien thing’?” Stevie prompts, and, oops, that was definitely the vodka.

“Nothing, there’s no thing, and especially not between me and Patrick, the end, sorry to disappoint.”

Stevie’s smirk deepens. “You seem flustered.”

“I’m not flus—maybe it’s the eggs,” David counters.

“Well, at the very least, I’m pretty sure he likes you,” Stevie says, after a beat. “Considering he was willing to literally fly you out of the way to protect your shoes. I mean, I wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have even considered it, really.”

David frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“You really didn’t pick up on that?” Stevie asks. “I basically insinuated that I was going to throw coffee on your – what were they? Rick’s Omens?”

 _“_ Rick Owens,” David corrects, automatically, and then – “ _Judas,”_ he says, aghast, as Stevie goes, “I was _bluffing_ , I was never actually going to—” and David talks right back over her, just brimming with betrayal, “My god, and here I am, apparently sleeping with the enemy! At least the _lice_ only want to maim my _body—_ ”

“My point exactly,” Stevie retorts. “I mean, why are you here, when you could be having a not-so-platonic sleepover with Patrick instead?”

 _“Okay,”_ David says, the metaphorical wind punched out of him by the image that Stevie has so rudely supplied. _The worst, you are the worst, _he silently directs at her, as he very hastily shreds the phantom scene in his head – Patrick’s eyes warm and half-lidded across from him in the dark, promise tucked into the curve of his lip – no, he _cannot_ have another Sebastien incident— “Well, because, one, he didn’t offer, and, two, again, he probably hates me now, and, three, even if he _did_ , you asked me first, so.”

“But I didn’t, though.”

“And,” David continues, talking over her, “I don’t even know if he _has_ a place, because he’s basically an immortal being, so, I just don’t see him holding down a condo.”

“But if you don’t want a relationship with him, why would it matter if he’s immortal?” Stevie notes.

“It doesn’t, I don’t, it’s just—I’m thinking about the logistics. Purely academically.”

“Of course,” Stevie says sardonically, nodding against the pillow. “Well, lucky for you, and the logistics, he isn’t. Immortal, that is. Or, he’s pretty bad at it, because he was basically a teenager when he was helping my great aunt with the motel, and he’s definitely not now. Shouldn’t already you know stuff like this? Like, didn’t he literally give you a fairy book?”

“Well, yes,” David allows. “But I haven’t read it.”

“Why not?”

“Because, I don’t know, I’m busy, I have a whole business I’m building, as you well know, since _you_ made it very clear that I am bereft of free time these days, so I’d appreciate us just, savoring these precious moments we have together, preferably in silence, and without baseless attempts at extracting information from me on some relationship that doesn’t exist, thanks so much.”

Stevie’s quiet for a moment, and David thinks, thankfully, that that’s the end of it. He’s wrong. “Do you want _me_ to read it, then? Give you a heads-up?”

“No. I mean, maybe, it’s—you’re making this into a bigger deal than it is. It’s a book. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Stevie asks. “Because it feels like it means something to you.”

“Okay, fine, I haven’t read it because maybe I just feel like if I do, it makes a—a _thing_ with Patrick an option I’m actually considering,” David says, pitching it again to the ceiling. Nice, safe ceiling. No judgement to be found here. “Which I’m not. Because, whatever his mortality or magical status or whatever, the fact remains that this is a temporary arrangement, and, if I’m honest? Everything else aside, I really think I’m done with just like, jumping the bones of the first person who gives me the time of day. I think I’d rather be alone than fall into another relationship that’s doomed to fail. So.”

“David Rose,” Stevie says, significantly. “Is that _growth?_ ”

“Okay, we are done with this conversation,” he replies, turning on his side to hide his smile. He flicks off the lamp. “Goodnight.”

*

“Oh, shoot,” Patrick groans, apropos of nothing, in the middle of one of their ‘study seshes’ at the store – now a regular fixture, expanded into an entire cheese, wine, and candy affair, with blankets and cushions abounding, and, apparently, extending well into the night. “Knew I should’ve stocked up earlier.”

“What?” David mutters, looking up from his deeply boring business tome – that, realistically, he’s absorbed about three sentences from in the last hour – to catch the fading sparkles which tell him Patrick had been trying some magic thing, and seems to have been unsuccessful.

Patrick sighs, rubbing his eyes. “Storage unit’s empty, which means I’m out of candy.”

“So, what’s the big deal?” David asks, reaching blindly for the cheese board. Elaine Musgrove really came through with that vendor referral, because this pecorino is, quite simply, pure magic. “Just magic up some more.” Patrick looks at him quizzically. “You know, do your thing – jazz hands, build some Oreos out of the air, or whatever.”

“Wait, you thought I was _creating_ all of this stuff?” Patrick says, that familiar shit-eating grin of his suddenly on full display. “What am I, that old guy in the sky? Kind of chuffed that you think I can grow a full beard.”

David throws up his arms. “Well, if you’re not _making_ them, where do they come from?”

“I buy them, from a store,” Patrick says, slowly. “Unfortunately, in this realm, you need to exchange money for goods and services. Pretty basic concept for a business owner to know.”

“ _Okay,_ ” David says, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch up in spite of himself, “Well, if you’re going to be tetchy about it, maybe I’ll ask Criss Angel to give me business advice instead.”

“Well, good luck with that,” Patrick retorts, stretching his arms out. “If you don’t mind, this apparent deity is going to go canonize a gas station. Hey, maybe I’ll get lucky too – get my pump primed while I’m there, huh?”

David, in the middle of a healthy sip of wine, chokes on a generous half of it. “Your— _what?_ ”

“’Pump priming’ is government investment expenditures designed to induce a self-sustaining expansion of economic activity, obviously,” Patrick replies, grinning as he taps the relevant section on the open page in front of David. “It’s why you got that grant. Read a book, sometime.” He winks, and then sparkles out of existence.

David sets his wine aside and drops his head into his hands, drawing an elongated _ugh_ out into the silence of the store. It’s not like Patrick knows what it does to David’s brain when he says _read a book_ , because he probably means _actually read that business textbook, David, instead of not-so-subtly watching me disdainfully roll a Chupa-Chup around my tongue and have very dirty thoughts about it while I try to discover the concept of style in this magazine you have graciously leant me_ (well, hopefully, only the very first part of that). But ever since he had the lice sleepover with Stevie, any mention of ‘reading’ or ‘books’ has become code for _read that book on business magic Patrick gave you_ which is, in turn, code for _admit you have this crush on Patrick and it is not going away and eventually you’re going to have to do something about it!_ So, in summary, his headspace is all very complicated and messy, and it is not helped in the fucking slightest by Patrick dropping something like _get my pump primed_ out of nowhere and having that image now eternally filed in his absolute wreck of a brain library.

Wine, though, is helpful. Because if he’s not going to _do_ anything about this whole… everything, the least he _can_ do is get it to all shut up.

“Done,” Patrick says, sparkling his way back into the store, flipping a pack of Oreos in his hands. “I was thinking, actually, while I was over there – you should look into getting someone in, at least part-time, to do your books once you open. With your current margins, you can definitely afford it. It would allow you to keep your focus on the creative side of the business, and general management.”

“Uh, sure,” David says, vaguely, refilling his glass. “Sounds like a plan.”

“So, I was thinking, you should practice, you know?” Patrick continues, lightly, but his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. It’s probably the Oreos – god, hating sugar would be a gift to David’s waistline, but a joyless existence that he doesn’t envy Patrick for in the slightest. “I mean, I know you were involved in hiring gallery staff, but I feel like, especially given your family’s experience, you’ll want to be even more selective with who gets their hands on your business.”

“Right,” David says, furiously telling the part of his brain trying to make _hands on your business_ a sexy thing to knock it off, “Well, thank you for the suggestion. I’ll look into that.”

“Why not now?” Patrick proposes. He sets the Oreos aside, clasping his hands together over his crossed legs. “Pretend I’m your candidate. Ask me some questions, see if I would be a good fit for your business.”

 _But what if I want that,_ David thinks, the thought surging up unbidden, cutting through his wine miasma like a hot knife through butter. _What if I want you_. “Uh,” he wavers, “I mean, we _could_ do that, but it’s getting kind of late, and, uh—”

There’s a sudden _pop_ and Patrick’s wings unfurl, brilliant blue in a champagne fizz of sparkles. “Oh,” Patrick says, surprised, and then he chuckles, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Oops. Yeah, I’m definitely getting tired. You’re right – we should call it for tonight.”

“No, wait, don’t—” David begins, reaching out as if he could, what—stop Patrick from folding his wings away? Off Patrick’s rightful confusion, he hastily retracts his hand. “Your wings, I mean. You should leave them out. Why do you keep them hidden?”

Patrick raises his eyebrows, his wings flicking up in tandem. “If you’re testing out questions that would be inappropriate for an interview, David, then the answer is yes, that is one of them.”

“It’s just—they’re very pretty,” David continues. “You know I love a statement piece.”

A quick smile graces Patrick’s face. “Oh, that I do.”

“And you were clearly fine having them on display when you were helping out with the motel, back then,” David points out. “Is it just me, then? Because if you’re worried you’ll outshine me, your fears are very much unfounded. As lovely as they are, they’re not Balenciaga.”

“You’re right, what was I thinking,” Patrick replies sardonically, that smile returning, and sticking this time. “Is that what Stevie told you? About the motel? I think I only needed them a few times, when her great aunt needed help with the roofing. She used to give me a hard time, too. We kind of made a game of it, to see if she could engineer a situation where I’d have to actually use them. But she never actually succeeded until very recently.”

“At the store,” David recalls. “She told me she was going to throw coffee on my shoes, which is—she _said_ she was bluffing, but it has done irreparable damage to the unbreakable bond I _thought_ we shared.” He thinks, for a moment. “Though, I don’t see why you couldn’t have just magicked the coffee away before it hit.”

“Liquids are hard to manipulate outside of containment,” Patrick explains, shrugging. “Gases, vapors, they’re the worst. I can throw around an aerosol can all day long, but anything that comes out of it I leave well alone unless I’m really jonesing for a migraine. You wouldn’t think it, but data, actually, is the easiest.”

“Mm, so, where do your wings fall on that spectrum?” David asks. “Is keeping them in hard?”

Patrick seems to take a moment to consider this. “Yes, and no. It’s not really much to with magic as it is to do with, uh, focus? Like… turning a light switch on and off – that action is where the magic comes in, but the ‘energy’ expenditure is more mental, like… imagine walking into a dark room and _not_ turning on the light. It’s focusing on not letting that reflex play itself out.”

“Okay, so why not turn on the light,” David presses. “Why stay in the dark?”

Patrick sighs, resignedly chowing down on his sixth Oreo. “Well, for one thing, we’re meant to remain low-key. Human business has a dress code. Blue glitter isn’t exactly ‘smart casual’, so, at any time other than Halloween, having a big pair of wings sticking out of your back tends to pull focus.”

“Okay, but literally _everyone_ in this town knows you,” David says. “You’re more famous here than most of my family, and we have multiple restraining orders against TMZ reporters.”

“Would that be a quantifiable measurement of fame?”

“Mm, now who’s deflecting,” David says. He eyes Patrick over his wine glass, and changes tack. “You know, I landed the Musgrove deal in a studded leather sweater and pants with a secondary bifurcated fabric overlay, but what I know from experience that people outside fashion circles would call a skirt, so. High fashion in the gallery circle, but very much a focus-puller in these parts.”

“Oh, _you_ landed the Musgrove deal?” Patrick challenges. David gives him a guileless _uh-huh_ , casting the line, and Patrick takes the bait. “I seem to recall being pretty involved in that process.”

David smiles. “Mm, yes, a lot of those _were_ your words. It’s almost as if that could’ve been you, up there, wearing a skirt for the normies, delivering that same presentation. Or, even, with a pair of blue-glitter fairy wings. Like, sometimes, the body in the room doesn’t matter as much as the content of the pitch.” He shrugs. “I mean, didn’t you say you wanted to give business-face a makeover?”

Patrick huffs out a laugh – his wings flaring out with it, blue glitter flashing and sparkling in the light – and David knows, warmth building in his chest, that he’s won this round. “Well, I stand corrected.”

“And I will drink to that,” David says, reaching out for the bottle of wine on the table, but the several glasses he’s had already have caught up to him and he fumbles, his reflexes too sluggish and wine-muted to catch the bottle in mid-tip, dark liquid already in flight—

There’s a flash of blue, and then he’s on his back, skidding to a stop along the floor, the sound of the bottle smashing against the floor out of his line of sight. And, if his unexpected relocation hadn’t knocked the breath out of him, it would be knocked out anyway by the sight of Patrick above him – hands braced warm and steady at David’s chest, wings flared out in scintillating blue, casting, in cold relief, the soft, surprised lines of his face, breath drawn quickly through a mouth half-parted, as though he, himself, didn’t expect this turn of events. David, slightly dizzy from lack of breath, thinks, for no reason at all, about fireworks – the sparkles that swirl around Patrick coming alive, cracking and sparking, lighting the air around his face, fizzing up in David’s ribcage, and he thinks, if he could just lift his arm, he could—

“Um,” Patrick says, belatedly, scrambling quickly off of David’s body. “Oh god, I’m sorry, it was—the wine, I just reacted—”

“You saved my jeans,” David says, quietly, because now his line of sight has cleared he can see not one drop of wine tarnishes the fabric. He levers himself back up, wincing a little at the pull on his back. “Um, I mean, red wine isn’t a death sentence for a dark fabric, but, thank you.”

“Yeah, ah, well, your clothes are important to you,” Patrick replies – expression contrite, wings very twitchy. “Sorry, again, for jumping you, there.”

“No, please, feel free to do it anytime,” David’s dumb, terrible mouth says, and he wishes immediately that he could take that entire sentence out the back of the store and shoot it. “Um, anyway, we should go to bed—to _my_ bed, _I_ should go to _my_ bed, it’s late, as you said, so.”

“Yeah, let’s, uh, do that,” Patrick replies, after a beat. “I’ll just clean up the—oh, boy,” and, at this, he starts to laugh, his whole body shaking with it, buzzing up through his wings – David peers over him to see that, in lieu of his jeans, the wine has claimed David’s business textbook as its victim. Patrick looks over to him, mirth dancing in his eyes, and manages, “Lucky you, huh?”

 _You’re in trooouble,_ sing-songs the little voice in the back of David’s head, and, smiling helplessly back at Patrick, he doesn’t have the heart to shut it up.

*

David really is in trouble, though. In trouble because of his huge, apparent crush on Patrick, in trouble _with_ the subject of his affections because he keeps forgetting to get in the electrician to fix that light, and, more pressingly, in trouble because the store opening is fast approaching and his anxiety has rolled right back into town in designer shades, slurping a tall iced coffee, _surprise, bitch, I bet you thought you’d seen the last of me._ The thing is, about opening a store, to the public, a store that you’ve put so much time and effort and energy all towards this one moment, is that in the beginning it was just abstract and now, with every day he ticks off the calendar, the screeching of the train upon the tracks he’s so willingly, so naively tied himself to gets louder. Patrick proposes going big on the opening. David sees two sets of tracks, and he’s tied to both of them, but if he can divert the train down _this_ section he’s more likely to make it out alive. Patrick counters that bringing in the trolley problem is a bit extreme for this case, since no one is likely to die at a store opening, and then steals David’s juice, and, great, now he’s thinking about Patrick’s mouth, and it all rolls back to step one.

They’re still having this debate walking back through the park after David picks up his order from a guy who makes pencils out of twigs – which is, if nothing else, just a good filler item – when Ted waves them over. “Hey guys! Wow, nice wings there, Patrick – looking pretty _fly!_ ”

“Thank you, Ted,” Patrick replies, his wings twitching a little in response. Ever since their conversation, Patrick’s been letting them hang out more and more, and if it kindles a kind of warm glow in David’s chest at the thought of Patrick being happy and comfortable enough to be not just some business fairy out on contract, but, _himself_ , well… who’s to say.

“What you got there?” Ted asks.

“Um, just these like, artisanal wood-pencils,” David says. “Make a great gift for anyone who writes… stuff.”

“Cool!” Ted says, peering into the box. “Opening day must be coming up soon, huh? Alexis has been telling me all about all the cool stuff you’ve been stocking, I’m excited to finally see what you’ve been working on all this time!”

“Oh, well, you know, it’s not a big deal,” David says, his anxiety slurping very loudly from that iced coffee in the back of his head, “I mean, I’m really thinking of just doing something low-key for the opening, like a friends and family special, or—”

“Hey, Ted,” Patrick cuts in, “What did you, uh, say you were doing in this park, again?”

“Oh, just out here with our foster dogs, letting them go for a run. Who let the dogs out? This guy!”

“Oh dear,” Patrick says, faintly, and David turns around slowly to see a pack of exuberant dogs bearing down on them like it’s Black Friday at the kibble farm. Patrick, with an expression of grim acceptance he usually associates with preparing to eat a Kit Kat, hands over his box of twig-pencils to David. “Here. Also, uh, you’re gonna have to get me some antihistamines. Strong ones.” And then, with a burst of blue glitter, he’s bowled right over into a pile of pure joyous doggy energy.

Which is how Patrick ends up passed out on the couch in the back room, sprawled mostly on his front with one pillow clutched awkwardly at his chest and another shoved under his head, which is crooked to face the door — snoring gently, mouth softly parted, a little drool coming out of the corner. It looks wildly uncomfortable, and David’s been tempted a few times to try to reposition him, except that his wings are out and they are so lovely and delicate that David doesn’t want them to get crushed against the ratty leather. Every so often they flick and twitch, like one or twenty of Dr. Sutton-Meyer’s cats having a dream. Every single thing about this is doing terrible, unspeakable things for him. He should get back to stocktake. He should… call that electrician, or any of the fifty million tasks he has to do in preparation of the opening, or, at least, go somewhere and eat something with very high cholesterol to really harden his arteries back up. Anywhere that’s not here, just watching Patrick sleep in some dire Bella-Edward role-reversal.

God, how has it come to this, like - someone threw unwashed denim into the whites cycle of his life, and now all he can see is blue.

“So how long have you been standing here?” Stevie asks, and he—he doesn’t _jump._ There’s absolutely no evidence to corroborate that. There may, however, been a moderately loud _Jesus fuck **!**_ before he claps his hand over his own mouth. Patrick, away in antihistamine dreamland, thankfully doesn’t stir.

“ _Shhhhh,_ hush, he needs to rest, don’t sneak _up on me_ like that,” he admonishes Stevie, hustling her out of the backroom and back into the store proper, flicking the curtain back in place.

“From where I’m standing, it’s got to have been at least ten minutes,” Stevie continues. “Because that’s how long I’ve been standing here.”

“Oh my god, okay, sue me for not wanting the guy helping get my business off the ground to literally die in my store,” David hisses. “These are human drugs. I don’t know how they react with fairy biology, or whatever. Did you get the goods?”

Stevie jerks her head over to the front desk, where a jumbo box of Froot Loops, absolutely loaded up with sugar, is now sitting. Patrick is going to fucking hate them. Which means it’s the perfect thing to get him back on his feet. “You know,” she says, “You _could_ just read the—”

“I’m not reading the book,” David replies. “It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. But can you just, wait here for a bit and make sure he doesn’t die, I have to go do a thing. It will—I will be quick,” he promises, easing backwards out of the door, as Stevie shoots him a sour look, “Fifteen minutes, please keep him alive, thank you.”

He doesn’t exactly speedwalk to Ted’s practice – this is not a body that is, in any way, built for speed – but he does his best to work within the fifteen-minute timeframe he’s set. Unfortunately, _Alexis_ is at the desk today, chatting animatedly to Ted, and David belatedly realizes that somehow it’s already Saturday, he could’ve sworn it was Wednesday, how is time moving so fast—he does not have _time_ for time to move this quickly, there is too much to do, and with Patrick out of commission, now, for who knows how long, it’s—anyway.

“Hey, David!” Ted says, spotting him first. “How’s the—”

“Hi, FYI, can you keep your dogs on a leash when Patrick’s around?” David cuts in, only slightly – _slightly –_ out of breath, “Because, turns out, he is _quite_ allergic, and is basically in a coma induced by a weapons-grade quantity of antihistamines thanks to the puppy pile he was subjected to earlier.”

Ted’s expression immediately drops from cheerful to deeply contrite. “Oh, I’m very sorry to hear that. Don’t worry, next time I’ll make sure they’re reigned in. Ah, with leashes. Sorry, I hope he’s doing okay.”

Alexis frowns. “Um, David, I thought he was allergic to cats?”

This is why David really wishes he could’ve gotten Ted alone. With Alexis in the mix, this is really cutting into his fifteen minutes. “Well, yes, he is _also_ allergic to cats, so, I guess, same rules apply then if you’re out walking the uh, cats. Anyway, this has been great, thank you, but I have to get back—”

“Actually, if you have allergies to one, you usually have allergies to both!” Ted explains, far too enthusiastically for the content matter. “A lot of people think it’s in the hair, but it’s actually their dander, which is the skin cells they shed, and also the dried saliva _on_ the fur – see, when cats and dogs lick—”

“Mm, _yes_ , love that for you, Ted,” Alexis interrupts. “But if he _knew_ he was allergic, why did he let them like, jump all over him? Why didn’t he just magic himself away?”

 _Don’t make me say it,_ David begs her, silently, as her frown deepens. _Please don’t make me say it._ “Well, I mean, he was _aware_ of it,” he says, quickly, “It’s just, you know—”

“Because it’s not fair to keep those dogs leashed up all the time, David,” Alexis says, damn her and her apparent tumble back into Ted’s orbit, she is meant to be on _his_ team, here, is ‘bros before hos’ not a sacred covenant? “They need to run around with their cute little doggy butts to their heart’s content—”

“He didn’t want to hurt their feelings, okay!” David blurts out. He presses his hands to his temple, before regrouping. “He said they wouldn’t understand, and they’d be really sad. Those are the regrettable choices he is making, like the choice _I_ made to come here and ask what I _thought_ would be a simple favor, and yet, here we are.”

Unfortunately, when he looks up, Ted and Alexis are making twin schmoopy faces. “Ohhhh my god,” Alexis breathes, “That is just the _sweetest_ —”

“Yes, okay, I’m aware,” David says, resisting the urge to just, bury his face in his hands again. “So if there are no further questions, I’m going to go.”

When he finally gets back, a good extra fifteen past his promised fifteen, Patrick is awake – sat atop the front desk, looking pale and weary and droopy-winged, and, evidently, glumly eating Froot Loops right out of the box. The fact that David is still, somehow, into this look on Patrick, is _so_ unfair. “Hey,” he says, jingling open the door, and Patrick smiles tiredly at him, waving his spoon. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I look, I hope,” Patrick replies, shoveling another spoonful of milky ‘Loops into his mouth.

“It’s a good thing he’s awake,” Stevie says, very unsubtly checking the time on her phone. “So at least one person around here can do math.”

“Isn’t that really a reflection on _your_ capabilities, too?”

“I don’t need to do math,” Stevie retorts. “That’s what your dad’s for.”

“Ooh, _burn_ , David,” Patrick says, laughing weakly.

Stevie grins, shouldering her bag, and mimes a mic-drop, transforming then into what seems like an unnecessary explosion – Michael Bay eat-your-heart-out – and exits the store.

“Do you, uh, need anything?” David says, trying not to hover – or, at least, trying not to be so _obvious_ about it. “Is the cereal okay?”

“It’s terrible, so, thank you,” Patrick replies. “I’m going to need to pass out, again, in a little bit, so what I _do_ need is for you to get that insurance sorted. And the electrician.”

“Yep, I will get right onto that,” David lies, because there’s a one hundred percent chance he’s going to end up just sorting and resorting boxes in the storage room as an excuse to keep an eye on Patrick. In case he dies. Which could still happen!

“And,” Patrick says, his tone somehow both innocuous and ominous at once, “You’re going to have to make a decision on the opening.”

 _Sluuuuurp_ , goes his anxiety, and, “Absolutely,” David says, the rumbling of that train getting louder once again.

*

David doesn’t make a decision on the opening. Instead, he decides to postpone that decision until Patrick is back on his feet. And then, a few days after that, just for safety. And then—

“David,” Patrick says, one week out, perched atop the cashier desk as he is wont to do, watching David pace the store. “Do you trust me?” He then makes a face, for some reason. “Wait, I’ll rephrase that—do you trust that I know what I’m talking about, when it comes to business?”

“I mean, yes,” David replies, “You literally have business magic, so yes.”

Patrick smiles. “Okay, so then you can trust when I say that you will be fine.”

“It’s just—okay, the whole reason we’re in this town is because my dad lost the family business,” David says, continuing to pace. “Dad built Rose Video from a two thousand dollar investment into the biggest video rental chain in North America, and yet, for the past three years since he lost control of the company and we all had to move here, he hasn’t had a single successful venture. To the point that he’s given up trying to make something new, and he’s apparently just jumped into motel management with Stevie. So, if _he_ can’t make it in this town, how am I even supposed to—”

“David,” Patrick says, again, firmly cutting him off. He then hops off the desk and _physically_ cuts him off – warm, sure hands bracketing David’s arms, keeping him still. “Those are very real and valid concerns. But I think it’s time we talked about Rose Video.”

David eyes him, carefully. “What do you mean?”

“Rose Video was a great idea, when it started out,” Patrick says. “And it grew quickly enough to outperform its competitors when they all jumped into the fray. But an idea is only as good as the work you put into it. And, for Rose Video, that idea was home entertainment – take the fun of the movies, in the comfort of your home. The fact that it happened to be a video store was secondary, because that was just the technology of the time. But somewhere along the way, your dad forgot to grow that idea. And, honestly, even without your business manager running off with it, give it a few more years and your family would’ve lost all that money anyway. And I think you know why.”

“Streaming services,” David says, realization blooming sharply in his chest. “No one even rents DVDs anymore.”

“Exactly,” Patrick says. “Netflix saw the writing on the wall, Blockbuster didn’t. Rose Video would’ve been next on the chopping block. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, any business goes through rough patches, but I _know_ you can get through them, David. You have a good idea, but it’s not just that – you know your market. You _know_ the people in this town, and what they’d be interested in, and stocking enough to cater for each demographic. You know your strengths, and your weaknesses: you know when to push ahead, to trust your instincts – and, in your words, your ‘impeccable sense of taste’ – and you know when to step back and ask for help when you need it. And, sure, I’ve helped guide you, direct your focus, made some magic in a pinch, but, in the end, _you_ did all of this. The opening is just a formality – you have a fully-realized business, and you’re ready to show it to the world _._ ” He grins, dimpling his cheeks. “Or, at least, Schitt’s Creek.”

David could kiss him. Not _could_ , he _wants_ to, more than anything, he wants to kiss him _right now_ – crowd Patrick back against the cashier desk, sweep off the debit machine, the mints, maybe not the actual register since it’s pretty heavy, but dip Patrick down, his leg hooked over David’s back, chest-pressed-to-chest, eliminate the empty air between them and _kiss_ him. Deep, romantic, breathless, like nothing else matters – not the stupid opening, not the road beyond that, not the fact that Patrick will be magicking himself off to some other business after whatever desperate proprietor hits up his mid-2000s magic phone – just this moment, just this kiss, just _him._

“Um,” Patrick says, softly, and oh god, David hasn’t said anything, and Patrick must have noticed – noticed his breath go shallow, the flush at his neck, how his eyes have been focused on his lips this whole time, “David, I—” And David, helplessly, inexorably, sways into his space, as Patrick tilts his head, eyes drawing wide—

And then he disappears, fairy dust tickling at David’s eyelashes as David tips, stumbling a couple steps forward into the space Patrick’s now vacated. The air suddenly lights up, a frisson of sparks trailing a hot arc through the store, and then, in a shower of glitter, _two_ figures reappear – Patrick, pressed to the floor, wings fluttering feebly under this back, with _another_ fairy leant over him, pinning him down, wings flared out in brilliant autumn-orange to match a vibrant tumble of auburn hair. “Getting a little slow there, Blue,” the fairy crows.

“Hey,” David says, indignantly, stepping towards them, “I don’t know who you are, but this is _my_ store, so take your hands off of Patrick and—”

Patrick flash-magics off the floor and over to David, pressing a hand to his chest to stay his momentum. “It’s fine, she’s a friend,” he says, hastily. “This is, uh, the very normal way we greet each other.”

“Except usually Patrick’s the one on top,” Patrick’s fairy friend replies, grinning as she stands up off the floor. Patrick, his back to her, winces, and shoots David a reassuring smile and an eyeroll, as if to say, _don’t worry, she’s just like this_ , and David lets his guard down a fraction. “I’m Rachel,” she continues. “Can I have your name?”

Before David can say anything, there’s a warm palm pressed to his mouth. He looks askance at Patrick, who’s looking over at Rachel, expression faintly disapproving. “He can _tell_ you his name,” he says, “But you can’t have it. Play nice.”

Rachel shrugs, easy, and gives him a wink. “Worth a shot.”

*

So, in the third act, right as the narrative arc of David’s business is reaching the point of no return, there’s a _second_ fairy in Rose Apothecary. And, whatever conclusions David has drawn thus far about fairy behavior from having Patrick around get dashed within the first few minutes of Rachel entering his life. Like, he _has_ , in fact, googled various word combinations of ‘fairies’ during the early days of having Patrick at the store, thank you very much, and the internet did indeed provide jack fucking nothing. Seems Patrick wasn’t kidding when he said data was the easiest thing to manipulate by magic, because though at the time it made him feel validated in not realizing the existence of fairies until his thirties, watching Rachel and Patrick chat merrily away feels like that one time Patrick and his father bumped into each other at the motel and spent several incomprehensible minutes enthusing about baseball. He really should’ve read that damn book before he made it into some symbol of refusing to acknowledge his feelings for Patrick – but, then again, it’s really too late for that, on both counts.

“So I’m on tooth detail, now,” Rachel is saying. “That’s why I’m in town – there’s a few kids losing their molars all in a row, and Billy Jacobs has a canine that’s hanging by a thread. But, god, it _sucks._ I don’t know how you didn’t lose your mind with how boring it is. The band I was contracted to before I got put on the ol’ milky way is going on tour, and I really wanted to see how awesome I helped them become, you know?”

“Okay, what is _tooth detail?”_ David asks, finally, trying to keep the tetchiness out of his tone.

“It’s like jury duty, for fairies,” Patrick explains. “We’ve all got to log a certain number of hours.”

“Hold on, are you—you’re the _tooth fairy_ ,” David says, disbelievingly.

“ _A_ tooth fairy, _temporarily_ ,” Rachel corrects. “The need for human kids to be rewarded with some piece of metal for something totally painless, that’s going to happen _anyway_ , is very weird. Right?”

“Honestly, I don’t disagree,” David replies, reevaluating a lot of his early childhood – his millionaire parents being _incredibly_ stingy with the compensation placed under his pillow for retrieval of his prized milk molars now makes a lot more sense.

“Anyway,” Rachel says, “I’m out here dealing teeth until I can get back to Toronto, no thanks to the Treaty, and Patrick’s out spreading the scourge of capitalism, which – you know, I read that there are more CEOs named John than like, all women? You fixed that, yet?”

That can’t be—David opens his mouth to dispute that, and then suddenly remembers _John_ Rose, CEO of Rose Video, and snaps it right shut again. “Working on it,” Patrick says, shooting a wry glance over at David, as if he knows what he was thinking. “I’ll let you know.”

“This place is nice, though,” Rachel comments, floating a multicolored artisanal soap into her hand. She looks to David. “You said this was yours, right?”

David nods, narrowly eyeing the soap. “Mm, well, we’re not open yet, but I’ll still have to ask you to pay for that.”

“Bold,” Rachel says, her smile sharp, magicking the soap back onto the shelf. “I like him,” she directs back at Patrick. “Is that why you’ve been here so long? I don’t think you’ve ever spent this much time on a gig before.”

“What do you mean, this much time?” David says, feeling something akin to panic rising up in his chest, _especially_ when Patrick doesn’t quite meet his eyes.

“It’s—there were some extensions from the original contract,” Patrick says, hesitantly, eyes flicking between him and Rachel.

“Must’ve been a lot of work,” Rachel says, frowning. “I caught up with Ken, last week, and he says he hasn’t seen you in _months._ Sounded kinda put out about it, really. He thought you guys had a good thing going.”

“Ken and I were never—it was casual, it wasn’t a _thing_ ,” Patrick says, increasingly flustered, “I just haven’t—I’ve been busy—”

“From all the work? At this store?” David asks, his panic nudging insistently at his throat, now. Patrick had said, earnestly, sincerely, that he was _ready_. Was he just telling him what he wanted to hear? “Because this has been basically the hardest job you’ve ever done?”

Patrick looks over David’s shoulder, and quickly nudges Rachel. “Rach, hey, that’s David’s sister over there, coming out of the café – Ricardo actually did a gig with her.”

“Oh my god, I haven’t seen that dumbass in _years_ ,” Rachel says, suddenly delighted, and she pops away in a cloud of glitterdust. David cranes his head around to spot Rachel saying something to Alexis, and Alexis putting two hands to her face, bouncing on her toes excitedly, then looping her arm in Rachel’s and dragging her out of view.

“David,” Patrick begins, “What Rachel said—”

“It’s fine. I get it,” David replies, putting on what he hopes is something resembling a smile. By Patrick’s expression, he doesn’t quite hit the mark. “And, um, sorry for dragging this out, but, I think I’m going to go for a soft opening. Invite only, friends and family of the store, twenty-five percent discount. I’m going to draw up a list, but um. You should go see Ken. And anyone else you haven’t gotten to see while you’ve been stuck here helping me.”

“I wasn’t _stuck_ here,” Patrick insists. “You asked, I accepted. Being here was my choice.”

David nods, trying on that smile again. It seems to stick a bit better, this time. “I know.”

Patrick’s silent, for a moment, and then seems to take a long breath. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “If that’s what you want.”

“I’ll see you at the opening?” David says, and he didn’t exactly _intend_ it to be a question, but, then again, he’s never had to question anything about Patrick, before. Until now.

“Of course,” Patrick says, giving him a small smile. And then he’s gone.

David doesn’t leave the store, even though all he wants to do is go back to the motel and climb into his bed and never leave again, because that would be proving the whole point – that he _isn’t_ cut out for this. That all this apparent work Patrick has put in to get him here has been for nothing, because, however he got here, he’s _here_ , now, and he’s going to open this store if it fucking kills him. So David calls the electrician, and he calls the insurance company, and he draws up his list of Family and Friends of Rose Apothecary, then locks up and heads out into the sunshine with a Customer Smile and a can-do attitude to make sure his opening will stick the landing, no matter how soft the launch.

David doesn’t get back to the motel until late – to the point that Alexis is already asleep, her clothes messily strewn over the covers, as is about par for her usual level of tidiness. Feeling at least as though he’s earned it at this point, he goes straight to bed. But, first thing the next morning (relatively – Alexis has already left for school, but it _is_ before ten, so as far as David’s concerned he’s up at the crack of dawn), he finds himself staring down at Patrick’s book.

 _This has gone on long enough_ , he thinks. _You want to be with him. So let’s figure out how._ He takes a quick breath, and then flips open the book to a random page. Which is blank. He frowns, flipping back the pages slowly, and then faster – all blank – until he gets to the front page. _All you have to do is ask :)_ is written in the soft loops of Patrick’s handwriting.

Goddamn Patrick and his smart mouth. That very same mouth he wants to kiss until he can’t think straight. David fishes his phone out of his pocket, dithering. Then he makes a decision.

“Alexis,” he says, once she picks up. “I need you to get me a tooth.”

*

Billy Jacobs’ canine costs him dearly. Alexis drives a hard, but fair, bargain – it _is_ going to give her a very weird reputation at her school, once her peers know she paid some kid to yank out his own tooth with a shoelace – so he reluctantly parts with Hana-san’s luxury suncream. The soft, reverent look on Alexis’ face reminds him, with a quick pull to his heart, of how he felt when Patrick first gifted it to him. But this is worth it. It has to be.

He jerks out of half-sleep, cradling a bowl of assorted candies in the chair he’s been sitting in since the start of his stake-out, by a few sharp raps at the door. Alexis had told him she was out with Twyla tonight, so there’s only one other person – well, _fairy_ – he’s currently expecting. And this time, it isn’t Patrick – Rachel is standing on his porch instead, in a cute polka-dotted white sundress that really brings out the color of her wings. “Hi,” she says. “I believe you have something I need to collect. Can I come in?”

“You can come in, and answer my questions,” David says, carefully, “And in exchange, I will give you candy, and the tooth. Is that an acceptable price?” He winces, for a moment, only just now realizing the optics of inviting a person into a motel room with the promise of candy.

Rachel doesn’t seem to be that perturbed, though. “Well, that tooth isn’t exactly yours to give, but, alright. You get three questions.”

“ _Three?”_ David splutters. “That’s not—I have an entire _bowl_ of candy. That has to be worth at least a few more—”

“Deal,” Rachel says, proffering her hand to shake, and then stepping up to the door. “Six questions, I’m down for that. This is so weird, though. I’ve tried to pop in here like three times, but it’s like I keep walking into a wall. I can feel the tooth in there, it’s just—” She inspects the doorframe with some interest. “What’s in here? Witchiron? You got a charged salt-lick laid down on these planks?”

“Ah, no, the motel is just very cursed,” David replies, vaguely. _Six_ questions. And he thought Alexis drove a hard bargain.

“Oh, well, that tracks,” Rachel replies. “I guess I was too preoccupied before to really notice.” She flicks her wrist, Patrick-like, and a can of fucking _pepper spray_ appears. “Insurance policy,” she says, as David lurches backwards with an impassioned _oh my GOD_. “Patrick likes you, and generally I trust his judgement, but my magic won’t work in there, so – you get it, right?”

“Okay, that’s fair,” David says, after a beat, and steps aside to let Rachel through. “How do you know him?”

“We grew up together,” Rachel says, spotting the bowl of candy and zeroing in. “In the fairy sense, at least. Ooh, Starbursts, nice. We used to talk a lot, in our tree.”

“In your—Patrick lived in a _tree?_ ” It’s very hard to imagine Patrick, in his neatly-pressed business shirt and dress shoes, perching on a branch.

“The Realm and Earth used to look pretty similar,” Rachel says, flopping onto David’s bed with the bowl in hand. David angles his chair to face her before sitting back down. “At least, before you guys chopped down all of your forests. But yeah, trees. We’re all in like, pods, for the most part, but everyone’s mind is in the tree. It’s kinda lonely, once your pod hatches, and you lose that connection. But we all have to go to Earth at some point, with the Treaty and all.”

“You mentioned that before,” David says, trying to piece all this information together. “So, the Realm is where you’re from? What is the—”

“Yes, it’s between the fabric of your reality, we can shrink ourselves to pass through and move other stuff through it too, blah blah, et cetera – look, I usually wouldn’t do this, but I feel like I’m obligated to let you know that you’ve already burned through half your questions,” Rachel says, popping another Starburst in her mouth. “So let’s get to the good stuff, because I am pretty curious as to why you went so far as to hold the last loose tooth in this town hostage so you could talk to me.”

“I’m not holding it _hostage_ , I paid a pretty high price to get it,” David retorts. _Shit._ It’s really hard to stop and— _think_ about every word he’s saying, especially when one question just naturally leads into another. “Okay, um. What did you mean when you said Patrick has never spent this much time on a ‘gig’ before?”

“Exactly what I meant,” Rachel replies, shrugging. “He’s always got something on the go, but he’s rarely on a single gig for more than a few weeks. Honestly, he’s logged so many hours, he could actually retire, at this point. Treaty obligations filled, go off and live your own life – that’s the dream, you know?”

Well, that wasn’t particularly helpful. Two more questions, then. David thinks, and tries a different angle. “Who is Ken, and is whatever he and Patrick have together serious?”

“Two-in-one,” Rachel says, grinning. “Hey, you’re improving. Ken’s another fairy who works in small business, like Patrick, though he’s more Quebec-based. I just know that Patrick and him would hang out whenever they ended up in the same part of town – though, at least from what I’m now gathering from Patrick, the thing that was _not_ a thing is now _definitely_ not a thing. Guess Ken was a lot more invested than Patrick was.” She unwraps another Starburst, empty wrappers starting to form a halo around the can of pepper spray she’s abandoned next to the bowl. 

If Ken had been human, it would’ve made David’s final choice of question a lot easier, because then _can a fairy and a human be together?_ would’ve been answered by proxy. But it’s a moot point if Patrick just sees him as— “Why doesn’t he want to leave?” David blurts out, and then, he can’t help it – it’s like the words just won’t stay _down,_ “Because even if it’s taken a lot of work to get me to this point, I _know_ what I’m doing, now, and I know it’s not necessarily going to be easy, but I’m pretty sure I can do this on my own. Everyone leaves me eventually, and I’ve done just fine, so—” He clamps his mouth down, _hard,_ before anything even _more_ revealing slips out. God, this was a stupid idea. He should’ve just… prepared to open the store, and then move forward with his life. He should’ve just—

“Okay, wow,” Rachel says, her smile fading into something more pensive. “I can’t tell you why, because I don’t actually know the answer myself. I just assumed, before, it was because of a tricky gig, and he’s a soft touch, so that’s why he kept extending his contract. But honestly, hanging out with Alexis yesterday, it doesn’t seem like that’s accurate. She kept telling me how much work you’d been putting in, and how everyone in town is excited for the launch, so… I mean, I have a theory, I guess. But I don’t think it’s my place to tell.” She chews on another Starburst, watching him carefully. “Would you like me to give you some advice?”

“Sure,” David says, tiredly, because, at this point, what the fuck does he have to lose. “Okay.”

“I think you asked the right question, here, but you’re looking at it the wrong way,” she says. “Reframe it. Glass half-empty: he doesn’t want to leave, because you’re terrible at your job, or whatever, and he feels obligated to drag you to the finish line. Okay, sure. But I know that glass half-empty is not his speed. So, same question, but the glass is half-full. What’s his answer?”

“He wants to...” David begins, and then – his heart kicks back up, like spring unfolding, flowers forcing themselves through the snow, Fashion Week marching into New York, bold, bright and breathless. It _can’t_ be that simple. It can’t be. “He wants to stay.”

“ _Now_ we’re getting somewhere,” Rachel says, approvingly. “Maybe there’s some hope for you after all. Also, sidebar, you _have_ to work on your phrasing, man. ‘Answer my questions’ doesn’t mean I had to be honest while doing so. I could’ve basically just made fart noises for like an hour and I would’ve still been honoring the conditions of your deal. But I like you, so I’ve played fair. So, for my price—”

 _“What—?”_ David objects, “No, I gave you the candy, and I’m giving you the tooth, we agreed on that, that was the deal.”

“I agreed to come inside and answer your questions,” Rachel points out. “Not my problem that you didn’t haggle upfront on being gifted my advice. Talk may be cheap, but it ain’t free, not in this economy – you’ve been working with Patrick long enough to know this by now.”

“Patrick doesn’t ask,” David says, after a moment. “He doesn’t ask anything from me.”

Rachel’s face goes soft. “Free will, and the balance of power. It’s a very human thing, but it’s important to him, and he’s important to me, so, my price is this: however this conversation shakes out, do right by him, okay?”

The idea is building in his head, and there’s so much he has to now do, in addition to the opening – god, he’s going to have to go see his lawyer, in Elmdale, he’s going to have to make sure the car’s available on the stupid sign-up sheet— “Okay,” he replies. “Okay, I will. And, um, thank you. For agreeing to do this.”

“This was weird, but you had Starbursts, so, an overall decent use of my time,” Rachel replies. She hops off of the bed, scooping up the pepper spray and leaving the candy bowl and detritus scattered all over it, and holds out her free hand. “Billy Jacobs’ cuspid, please. There’s an incisor about to drop in Elmdale, so I’ve gotta get to it, pronto.”

David fishes the tooth out of his pocket, dropping it into her palm. “Oh, wait, sorry, I have one more question,” he says, quickly, before she gets to the door. “So I guess you’re not obligated to answer it, but, uh – say, hypothetically, someone accidentally, consumed some of your uh, wing dust. What would happen? Just, purely theoretically.”

“Oddly specific, but sure,” Rachel says, leaning against the doorjam, her own wings glittering in the fluorescent light fixture outside. “They were good Starbursts, pink is my favorite, so this one’s on the house. Right now, it wouldn’t kill you, but wouldn’t taste all that great. You’re growing on me, so, I’d say like, cardboard, maybe.”

The dust from Patrick’s wings had tasted _sweet_. “Oh,” David says, softly. If he had only _known_ , back then, what it meant, if he and Patrick could have—

“Then again, maybe it has a different effect when it gets activated,” Rachel is saying, from his porch. She grins, long and slow. “Hey, I’d tell you to ask Alexis about it, but we kept it pretty human. That’s probably why she suggested it, actually, since she knew magic doesn’t work in here. Anyway. Give her my best.”

“Wait,” David says, and, _oh god,_ putting two and two together, “Wait, _what?”_ But when he gets to the door, there’s only fading sparkles in the air, and a golden loonie slowly spinning to a stop at his feet.

*

David arrives, late, to the opening of his own store, to see a _line_. A line that is definitely longer than his pre-approved list, and containing some very off-brand customers that he would _not_ consider friends nor family, now or going forwards – one of them, who is apparently ‘Darleen’s cousin’, has the temerity to tell him not to _cut the line_ outside his own store. Patrick, thank god, is actually there, hovering nervously behind the register – well, not literally, but his wings _are_ out, and they seem to perk up when David comes in.

“Hi,” David says, softly. “Thanks for coming. Even though I know you’re still, technically, under contract, um. I wasn’t sure you would show? So. It’s good to see you.”

“Of course I came,” Patrick replies, emphatically. “I wouldn’t miss it. Screw the contract – you deserve the chance to be out on the floor, showing off what you’ve built, here.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and he ventures, slyly, “With all your friends and family.”

“Okay, so, maybe some people who weren’t on the list found out about the opening,” David admits. “Maybe a lot of people. Maybe literally Twyla’s entire family. I don’t know, they’re here now, and I’m running with it.”

“Your opening plan still stands, then?” Patrick asks. “You’re definitely married to that twenty-five percent discount?”

“I’m not, _now,_ but that parade outside certainly is,” David replies, sneaking a harried glance out the door. “If I reneged on the deal, I think it could get ugly.” He casts around, trying to figure out if he’s missed anything – products all lined up in place, arranged just so, light fixtures all seem to be working, he loaded the float into the till last night because he running some last-minute errands but no one appears to have robbed the store in the meantime, so—

“Hey,” Patrick says, gently, interrupting his train of thought. “Are you ready to do this?”

He feels ready. He _is_ ready. And not because Patrick told him he was – because, David can look around this space, see every detail in sharp relief, and know, in every inch of this store, that it’s his own. “Open the doors,” David tells him, and Patrick smiles, lifting a finger – the door latch sparkles, for a moment, and then clicks open.

*

In the aftermath, after the last customer trails out the door, in the glorious maelstrom of discarded wine glasses and misplaced body milks and a scarf that definitely isn’t one of _theirs,_ but might possibly belong to one of Twyla’s twenty-five-odd cousins, all of whom David has met, in this one impossible day – and his _real_ family and friends, who didn’t leave behind any scarves, but David still felt their pride wrapped soft and warm around him, either way – when Patrick ribs him gently that he could’ve been twenty-five percent richer if he’d just done the hard launch, and David counters that none of these people would’ve turned _up_ if not for the tantalizing lure of a bargain, and they grin giddily at each other, like they don’t know how to stop – after all of that, David locks the door, and looks on, unable to hide his fondness if he tried, as Patrick wanders around the store.

“So, I guess this is it,” Patrick says, eventually. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, David. And, that’s not something I say lightly. About before, though, and what Rachel was saying—”

“It’s fine, we actually, uh, talked?” David says. “And cleared everything up. But, before you head off, there’s something I’d like you to take a look at, first.” He reaches into his bag, and pulls out a slightly-crinkled manila folder, handing it over to Patrick. “It’s not magical, and it doesn’t come with a retro phone that can make you hear someone’s feelings, but it _is_ a contract. Full-time, at Rose Apothecary.”

Patrick, with an expression of soft surprise, lifts the paperwork out of the folder, skimming quickly through it. “This is… really thorough, David. And quite generous. And—aw,” he says, grinning, as he places a hand across his heart, “You got me dental.”

“I mean, with your diet, it’s really a given,” David replies, smiling back. “You shouldn’t sign on for anything less.”

“Well, this actually is not the first time I’ve been asked something like this,” Patrick says, his smile dropping into something more measured, careful. “People do try to employ me, sometimes, at the end of a contract. Not necessarily for me, though, but for the magic.”

“Then don’t sign it,” David replies. “Rip it up. Go work for a rival store. Actually – don’t do that, maybe work for a noncompetitor—”

“What, you don’t think your business will stand on its own?” Patrick cuts in, gently teasing.

“Of course I—this is _my_ speech, you are derailing my speech, my _point_ is, I don’t care if you work with me or not, I’m just asking you to stay. If that’s what you—oh my god, wait, hold on,” David splutters, because Patrick has already magicked in a pen, and started to _sign it_ , “I’m not done, can you please—thank you, but there’s something important I need to add, please hold on one second.” Patrick waits, pen poised at the page, and David clears his throat. “Um, so, I have a confession to make. And it’s important you know this, before you agree to work with me, because… you remember that whole thing with, uh, Sebastien.”

“Vividly,” Patrick says, dryly.

“Mm, yeah, so the reason you ended up in that room – and, again, really sorry about that, not my finest moment – is because I was, um. Well, I really wished you were there, not because I actually _needed_ your help? But because I _wanted_ you there, so I could be making out with you instead of him.” Patrick’s eyes widen, and he begins to smile, slowly, brilliantly – but he doesn’t interrupt. “It really was an accident, though,” David clarifies, hastily, “I forgot about the whole magic summoning thing—anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t need you here, I _can_ run this store by myself, but, we make a really good team, and I do _want_ you here. And I also, um, want _you_ here, as it turns out, so, if you—oh my _god,_ okay,” he says, laughing high and helpless, as Patrick lashes his pen across the signature line, sparks literally flying, before setting the paperwork aside and flashing the pen out of existence.

Then Patrick fishes his phone out of his pocket, flips it open, and snaps it clean in half in an angry shower of fairy dust, tossing the broken pieces carelessly across the room. It's the hottest fucking thing David’s ever seen, but Patrick gives him little time to simmer in it - taking two strides towards him, anchoring one hand at his hip and curling one around his neck, pulling David close enough to feel the tremor of Patrick's heart in his chest, breath-to-breath, and kisses him. And kisses him. And _kisses_ him. David feels like he's floating, and he—he _is_ floating, his heels lifting off the ground, and he opens his eyes to - the gentle hum of Patrick's wings, a blur of brilliant blue, and Patrick's grin, endlessly bright, like all the road stretched out ahead. 

“David Rose,” Patrick says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested what I would consider the 'end credits' for this fic, I direct you henceforth to Shawn Wasabi's lascivious sugarbop [SNACK](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NXWVoyzwuWo). And, if you're asking - yes, I did plot this fic in an airport, start writing basically two weeks before the deadline (one week of which I was sick) and wrote the last line literally five minutes before fics were sent out, because adulting is hell, and I've done my BEST, okay. But, a big thank you to the OFN team, who I'm sure have been just as busy, for pulling together another great event. Thank you, again, to my prompter, for giving me a prompt I really did have a lot of fun with, even though I was very much down to the wire. And thank YOU for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] maybe if by magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739385) by [Amanita_Fierce](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanita_Fierce/pseuds/Amanita_Fierce)




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